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The Memoirs of AGA KHAN

WORLD ENOUGH AND TIME

BY HIS HIGHNESS THE AGA KHAN,

P.C., G.C.S.I., G.C.V.O., G.C.I.E.

1954

Simon and Schuster, New York

Publication Information: Book Title: The Memoirs of Aga Khan: World Enough and Time.
Contributors: Aga Khan - author. Publisher: Simon and Schuster. Place of Publication: New
York. Publication Year: 1954.

First Printing

Library of Congress Catalogue Card Number: 54-8644
Dewey Decimal Classification Number: 92
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BY H. WOLFF BOOK MFG. CO., NEW YORK, N. Y.

CONTENTS

PREFACE BY W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM

Part One: CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH

I A Bridge Across the Years 3

II Islam, the Religion of My Ancestors 8

III Boyhood in India 32

IV I Visit the Western World 55

Part Two: YOUNG MANHOOD

V Monarchs, Diplomats and Politicians 85

VI The Edwardian Era Begins 98

VIII Czarist Russia 148

VIII The First World War 1 6 1

Part Three: THE MIDDLE YEARS
IX The End of the Ottoman Empire 179

X A Respite from Public Life 204

XI Foreshadowings of Self-Government in India 218

XII Policies and Personalities at the League of Nations 248

Part Four: A NEW ERA

XIII The Second World War 289

XIV Post-war Years with Friends and Family 327

XV People I Have Known 336

XVI Toward the Future 347

INDEX 357

PREFACE

by W. Somerset Maugham

I HAVE KNOWN the Aga Khan for many years. He has been a kind and helpful friend. The
introductions he gave me when I spent a winter in India enabled me to profit by the rich
experience of my sojourn in that wonderful country as otherwise I could never have done, so
that when he paid me the compliment of asking me to write a preface to his autobiography I
was glad to be given the opportunity to do him this small, and really unnecessary, service.

For the book speaks for itself. It was not till I had read it that it was borne upon me how
difficult a task I was undertaking. The Aga Khan has led a full life. He has been a great
traveler and there are few parts of the world that he has not visited either for pleasure or
because his political and religious interests made it necessary. He has been a great theater
goer; he has loved the opera and the ballet. He is an assiduous reader. He has been occupied
in affairs in which the fate of nations was involved. He has bred horses and raced them. He
has been on terms of close friendship with kings and princes of the blood royal, maharajahs,
viceroys, field marshals, actors and actresses, trainers, golf professionals, society beauties and
society entertainers. He has founded a university. As head of a widely diffused sect, the
Ismailis, he has throughout his life sedulously endeavored to further the welfare, spiritual and
material, of his countless followers. Toward the end of this autobiography he remarks that he
has never once been bored. That alone is enough to mark the Aga Khan out as a remarkable
man.

I must tell the reader at once that I am incompetent to deal with some of his multifarious
activities. I know nothing of racing. I am so little interested in it that one day when I was
lunching with the Aga Khan just before Tulyar won the Derby we talked only of India and I
never thought of asking him whether his horse had a chance of winning. I know no more of

politics than the ordinary newspaper reader. For long years the Aga Khan was intimately
concerned with them. His advice was constantly sought, and it was generally sound. He
believed in moderation: "Of one fact," he writes, "my years in public life have convinced me;
that the value of a compromise is that it can supply a bridge across a difficult period, and later
having employed it it is often possible to bring into effect the fullscale measures of reform
which, originally, would have been rejected out of hand." He knew well the statesmen on
whose decisions during the last fifty years great events depended. It is seldom he passes a
harsh judgment on them. He pays generous tribute to their integrity, intelligence, patriotism,
wide knowledge and experience. It seems strange that with these valuable qualities they
should have landed us all in the sorry mess in which we now find ourselves.

The Aga Khan is a charitable man, and it goes against his grain to speak ill of others. The
only occasion in this book of his on which he betrays bitterness is when he animadverts on
the behavior of our countrymen in their dealings with the inhabitants of the countries in
which in one way and another they held a predominant position, in Egypt and India and in the
treaty ports of China. During the eighties relations between British and Indians were in
general easy, amiable and without strain, and had they continued to be as they were then, "I
greatly doubt, "he writes, "whether political bitterness would have developed to the extent it
did, and possibly something far less total than the severance of the Republic of India from the
Imperial connection would have been feasible." It is a disquieting thought. He goes on as
follows: "What happened to the Englishman has been to me all my life a source of wonder
and astonishment. Suddenly it seemed that his prestige as a member of an imperial, governing
race would be lost if he accepted those of a different color as fundamentally his equals. The
color bar was no longer thought of as a physical difference, but far more dangerously — in the
end disastrously -as an intellectual and spiritual difference.... The pernicious theory spread
that all Asiatics were a second-class race, and 'white men' possessed some intrinsic and
unchallengeable superiority." According to the Aga Khan the root-cause of the attitude
adopted by the ruling class was fear and a lack of inner self-confidence. Another was the
presence in increasing numbers of British wives with no knowledge of or interest in the
customs and outlook of Indians. They were no less narrow and provincial when forty years
after the time of which the Aga Khan writes I myself went to India. These women who for
the most part came from modest homes in the country and, since taxation was already high,
had at the most a maid of all work to do the household chores found themselves in spacious
quarters, with a number of servants to do their bidding. It went to their heads. I remember
having tea one day with the wife of a not very important official. In England she might have
been a manicurist or a stenographer. She asked me about my travels and when I told her that I
had spent most of my time in the Indian States, she said: "You know, we don't have anything
more to do with Indians than we can help. One has to keep them at arm's length."

The rest of the company agreed with her.

The clubs were barred to Indians till by the influence of Lord Willingdon some were
persuaded to admit them, but so far as I could see, it made little difference since even in them
white and colored kept conspicuously apart.

When I was in Hyderabad the Crown Prince asked me to lunch. I had spent some time in
Bombay and was then on my way to Calcutta.

"I suppose you were made an honorary member of the Club when you were in Bombay," he
said, and when I told him I was, he added: "And I suppose you'll be made an honorary
member of the Club at Calcutta?"

"I hope so," I answered.

"Do you know the difference between the Club at Bombay and the Club at Calcutta?" he
asked me. I shook my head. "In one they don't allow either dogs or Indians; in the other they
do allow dogs."

I couldn't for the life of me think what to say to that.

But it was not only in India that these unhappy conditions prevailed.

In the foreign concessions in China there was the same arrogant and hidebound colonialism
and the general attitude toward the Chinese was little short of outrageous. "All the best hotels
refused entry to Chinese, except in wings specially set aside for them. It was the same in
restaurants. From European clubs they were totally excluded. Even in shops a Chinese
customer would have to stand aside and wait to be served when a European or an American
came in after him and demanded attention." Lord Cromer was the British Resident when the
Aga Khan went to Egypt. He found the British were not merely in political control of the
country, but assumed a social superiority which the Egyptians appeared humbly to accept.
"There was no common ground of social intercourse. Therefore inevitably behind the facade
of humility there developed a sullen and brooding, almost personal, resentment which later
on needlessly, bitterly, poisoned the clash of Egyptian nationalism with Britain's interests as
the occupying power." Now that the foreign concessions in China exist no more, now that the
last British soldiers are leaving Egypt, now that, as the Aga Khan puts it, British rule in India
has dissolved and passed away like early morning mist before strong sunlight, the British
have left behind them a legacy of hatred. We too may ask ourselves what happened to
Englishmen that caused them so to act as to arouse an antagonism which was bound in the
end to have such untoward consequences. I am not satisfied with the explanation which the
Aga Khan gives. I think it is to be sought rather in that hackneyed, but consistently
disregarded aphorism of Lord Acton's: Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts
absolutely.

It is no good crying over spilt milk, so the determinists tell us, and if I have dwelt on this
subject it is with intention. In the world of today the Americans occupy the position which
the British so long, and for all their failings not ingloriously, held. Perhaps it would be to
their advantage to profit by our example and avoid making the errors that have cost us so
dearly. A brown man can fire a Sten gun and shoot as straight as a white man; a yellow man
can drop an atom bomb as efficiently. What does this mean but that the color bar is now a
crass absurdity? The British wanted to be loved and were convinced that they were; the
Americans want to be loved too, but are uneasily, distressingly, conscious that they are not.

They find it hard to understand. With their boundless generosity they have poured money into
the countries which two disastrous wars have reduced to poverty and it is natural that they
should wish to see it spent as they think fit and not always as the recipients would like to
spend it. It is true enough that the man who pays the piper calls the tune, but if it is a tune the
company finds it hard to dance to, perhaps he is well-advised to do his best so to modify it
that they find it easy. Doubtless it is more blessed to give than to receive, but it is also more
hazardous, for you put the recipient of your bounty under an obligation and that is a condition
that only the very magnanimous can accept with good will. Gratitude is not a virtue that
comes easily to the human race. I do not think it can be denied that the British conferred great
benefits on the peoples over which they ruled; but they humiliated them and so earned their
hatred. The Americans would do well to remember it.

But enough of that. The Aga Khan is descended from the Prophet Mohammed through his
daughter Fatima and is descended also from the Fatimite Caliphs of Egypt. He is justifiably
proud of his illustrious ancestry. His grandfather, also known as Aga Khan, by inheritance
spiritual head of the Ismailis, was a Persian nobleman, son-in-law of the powerful monarch,
Fateh Ali Shah and hereditary chieftain of Kerman. Smarting under an insult that had been
put upon him he took up arms against a later Shah, Mohammed by name, was worsted and
forced to make his escape, attended by a few horsemen, through the deserts of Baluchistan to
Sind. There he raised a troop of light horse and after various vicissitudes eventually reached
Bombay with his two hundred horsemen, his relations, clients and supporters. He acquired a
vast estate upon which he built palaces, innumerable smaller houses for his dependents and
outbuildings, gardens and fountains. He lived in feudal state and never had less than a
hundred horses in his stables. He died when the author of this book was a child and was
succeeded by his son who, however, only survived him a short time, upon which the Aga
Khan whom we know, at the age of eight, inherited his titles, wealth and responsibilities,
spiritual and temporal. His education was conducted to prepare him for the sacred charge to
which he was bom. He was taught English, French, Arabic and Persian. Religious instruction
was imparted to him by a renowned teacher of Islamic lore. No holidays were allowed him.
The only relief from work was on Saturdays and feast days when he received his followers
who came to offer gifts and do him homage.

The Aga Khan, raised to such eminence at so early an age, was fortunate in that his mother
was a highly cultivated woman. She was deeply versed in Persian and Arabic poetry, as were
several of her ladies in waiting, and at mealtimes at her table "our conversation was of
literature, of poetry; or perhaps one of the elderly ladies who traveled to and from Teheran a
great deal would talk about her experiences at the Court of the Shah." The Begum was a
mystic and habitually spent a great deal of time in prayer for spiritual enlightenment and
union with God. "I have, in something near ecstasy," he writes, "heard her read perhaps some
verses by Roumi or Hafiz, with their exquisite analogies between man's beatific vision of the
Divine and the temporal beauty and colors of flowers, the music and magic of the night, and
the transient splendors of the Persian dawn." The Aga Khan is a deeply religious man. One of
the most interesting chapters in this book is that in which after telling of his personal beliefs,
he gives a concise exposition of Islam as it is understood and practiced today. It is there for

the reader to read and I will say no more about it than that it is sympathetic and persuasive. It
may be that it will occur to him that the duties of man as he may learn them from the verses
of the Koran and the Traditions of the Prophet are not very different from those he may leam
from the Sermon on the Mount. But man is an imperfect creature, at the mercy of his
passions, and it should surprise no one that too often these duties are no more practiced by
Muslim than by Christian.

The general public knows the Aga Khan chiefly as a racing man and it is not unlikely that the
reader of the book, remembering pages in which he narrates his experiences as a breeder of
bloodstock and the happy winner of many classical events, will be a trifle taken aback by this
moving, thoughtful and sincere chapter. There is no reason why he should be. The chase was
the main occupation of the Iranian nobles from which he is descended. It is part of the
tradition he inherited and the environment in which he was brought up. His grandfather, his
father, had hounds, hawks and horses, the swiftest and finest money could buy or they could
breed. On the death of his father only twenty or thirty of the ninety race horses he had
possessed were kept and they, through the Aga Khan's minority, were raced under his colors
all over Western India. Racing is in his blood. But first and foremost he is the spiritual head
of a sect of Islam which counts its adherents by the million. He has a secure belief in the faith
which was the faith of his great ancestors and he is ever mindful of the sacred charge, with
the great responsibilities it entails, which is his by right of birth. We are none of us all of a
piece. The Aga Khan says somewhere that we are all composed of diverse and conflicting
elements: of few men could this be more truly said than of himself. But he is fortunate in that
the elements in him only superficially conflict; they are resolved by the strength and
consistency of his character.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I MUST RECORD my deep and warm gratitude to my old friend, Mr. Somerset Maugham,
for the foreword which he has been kind enough to write for this book, and for the agreeable
and gracious observations that he has made. To Miss Merioneth Whitaker go my thanks for
her invaluable skill and patience in the preparation of the manuscript, without which it would
have been a far more arduous labor.

A recent portrait of His Highness the Aga Khan.

A recent portrait of Her Highness the Begum Aga Khan.

The Aga Khan's grandfather, Aga Khan I.

Aly Shah, the Aga Khan's father.

Her Highness Lady Aly Shah, mother of the Aga Khan.

At his installation as Imam, the Aga Khan ascends the Gadi (the seat of office) in Bombay in
1885 .

The Aga Khan as a young man.

A portrait of the Aga Khan taken during the reign of George V. Created G.C.I.E. in 1902, he
is shown wearing the Badge of the Order of the Indian Empire.

With Mahatma Gandhi and Mrs. Sarojani Naidu in London during the Round Table
Conference of 1931 (Planet News).

The Aga Khan's being weighed against diamonds at his Diamond Jubilee celebration in
Bombay, 1946. The diamonds are in plastic boxes on the scale (Associated Press).

With the Begum Aga Khan and Prince Sadruddin at the Diamond Jubilee celebration.

Part One

CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH

A Bridge Across the Years

THE TRUTH about a man as much as about a country or an institution is better than legend,
myth and falsehood. I am someone about whom a whole fabric of legend has been woven in
my own lifetime. Of recent years I have often been urged by editors and publishers to write
my memoirs, my own account of my life and experiences, of my beliefs and opinions, and the
way in which they have been molded. Friends have advised me that it is my duty to my own
reputation, now and in the future, to tell the truth about myself as I see it, and to refute the
falsehoods that have gained credence. Flattering this persuasion may have been, kind in
intention certainly.

There are certain obvious and gross fictions which need to be corrected — the grandiose
estimates, for example, of my own and my family's wealth. I have seen estimates both of my
capital and my income so inaccurate that not one but two noughts at the end should have been
knocked off. Not long ago an alleged biography was published; in the matter of dates the
margin of error in it was anything from one to ten years. If there is this amount of
misinformation on simple, easily discoverable fact, what sort of veracity is likely in wider,
more profound and more intangible matters?

My life in many ways has been a bridge across vastly differing epochs. Fooking at it for the
moment simply from the Western point of view — I had a full life in the Victorian era, and I
am leading now an equally full life in this new Elizabethan era. When I was a young man I

sat next to Queen Victoria at a dinner party and talked to her throughout it; the other day I sat
next to Queen Elizabeth II at a tea party and talked to her throughout it. In my youth the
internal combustion engine was in its early, experimental phase, and the first motorcars were
objects of ridicule; now we all take supersonic jet propulsion for granted, and interplanetary
travel is far more seriously discussed today than was even the smallest flying venture at a
time when I was quite grown up and had already lived a full and active life. I had the great
honor of knowing Lord Kelvin, in his time the greatest physicist in the world; he assured me
solemnly and deliberately that flying was a physical impossibility for human beings and quite
unattainable. Even H. G. Wells in his early book, Anticipations, put off the conquest of the
air and the discovery of atomic power for two or three centuries. Yet these and much more
have come to pass in a brief half century.

During this period I have been not only an onlooker but by the accident of birth an active
participant in affairs. The extent of the revolution which I have witnessed is not yet to be
measured, but we can see manifestations of it at many levels of human experience.
Throughout the Western world the whole way of life has undergone fundamental and far-
reaching changes, perhaps the greatest of which is that the expectation of life has been
increased by nearly twenty years. Old age begins for men and women in the West at anything
from ten to twenty years later than it did in my youth, and in India and in the East generally a
similar, though at present smaller, extension of the span can be noted. In Europe and America
it is most marked. There are far, far more old men and women alive and active. Walking
along a busy street like Piccadilly or any of the Paris boulevards, a man of my age sees the
difference. In Europe there has been a widespread restriction of families among the upper and
middle classes; the family of the nineties, with seven or eight children, has almost completely
disappeared. In no European country is divorce looked upon as anything unusual; when I was
young, men of the stature of Charles Dilke and Charles Stewart Parnell were driven out of
public life — Dilke not indeed because he was a "guilty party," nor even as a principal, but
solely on the grounds of association with a divorce case. Today all over Europe men to whom
the strictly legal term "guilty party" is applicable are to be found in the highest, most
responsible positions in the state. Indeed the only penalty to which they are subject seems to
be nonadmission to the Royal Enclosure at Ascot — a privilege which, I daresay, few of them
care about anyway.

The changes in the status of women, economic and social, have been enormous; fifty or sixty
years ago almost the only career open to them was marriage or indirect dependence on man's
protection, but today they possess the avenues of countless honorable and profitable callings,
and they carry themselves with selfconfidence and self-assurance. Homosexuality was looked
upon very much like leprosy. Today in most European countries either there is Freudian pity
or there are excuses, and by men like Andre Gide and others, open justification if not
glorification.

I was a grown-up man in that old world. I feel that it is therefore my duty to give an account
in some detail of my experience over this long, momentous epoch, and to record my personal
acquaintance -often indeed my real and deep friendship — with some of those who have had
their share in bringing about its vast political, social and economic changes.

England — we still talked naturally of England when I was young -dwelt then in "splendid
isolation," a state of affairs which stimulated a far deeper, stronger pride than did the more
extreme American isolationism of the twenties and the early thirties. To that England, France
was the traditional enemy and Germany the only potential friend in Europe. Only a handful of
men whose thoughts converged from very different origins — Sir Charles Dilke, imperialists
like Admiral Maxse, and a few radical "Little Englanders" — championed friendship with
France and distrust of Germany.

In vast regions of the East, England's hegemony was virtually undisputed, and her Indian
Empire seemed among the most solidly based and most durable of contemporary political
organizations. A man like Lord Curzon — and indeed I should say ninety-nine per cent of the
British ruling class — would have been horror-struck at the thought of the formation of an
Indian Republic, or its inevitable corollary, and even more appalled by the prospect of the
partition of the enormous Indian Empire and the emergence of two healthy national states
each with its own historic personality. Even as late as the 1930's, when the promise of
eventual Dominion status had been made, this same British ruling class permitted itself to be
obsessed with the childish delusion that the Indian Empire, which their predecessors had built
up, could be handed on — like an estate after the owner's death — to successors who would
preserve the artificial unity of the structure as if it were a true unity rooted in spiritual and
intellectual foundations. Even in the 1940's men like Lord Wavell and others hoped and
believed that even after the British quitted India, it would be possible to maintain a united
Indian Army. Other European colonial powers nourished delusions no less futile. Less than a
decade ago it was seriously held in France that the three Indo-Chinese states would join,
humbly and as junior partners, in a French Union of which Paris must be the head and heart.

I have seen the long revolution of Asia against European rule. In the nineties it was a cloud
no bigger than a man's hand. What did it seem to amount to then? The mild little hope of a
few jobs, and a few honorific titles. Today in Asia the revolution is accomplished,
everywhere east of the Middle East there has been an end of European rule in fact and in
name; and I have lived long enough to see the same process begin in Africa. But fortunately
the western European governing classes have learned the lesson of Asia. The British in West
Africa, the Belgians in the Congo and the French in their African Equatorial possessions are
preparing and planning that transfer of power for which in Asia they were never prepared.

I have had my share in these changes. However, I must stress that whatever part I may have
played in public affairs and in political developments in India and elsewhere, none of it has
been my main task or duty. Since my childhood my chief concern, my chief responsibility,
throughout the whole of my life, has been the great charge which I have inherited as Imam of
the Ismaili branch of the Shia sect of Muslims. Elsewhere in this book I shall give a detailed
account of what I mean by this statement. Here, however, I must only affirm that my duties in
this task have always been my prime concern; in all aspects — in a vast and varied
correspondence, in the maintenance of countless links of personal and religious loyalty and
affection — they have occupied a large part of every day of my life.

As I look back, there is one memory, one piece of self-knowledge, which gives me the utmost
satisfaction. I was myself personally responsible for the conversion to Islam of some thirty
thousand to forty thousand caste Hindus, many of them of the upper and professional classes.
They had been people without a faith, and they found a faith. Neither my father nor my
grandfather had attempted a religious task of this magnitude. Its fulfillment has had one
important and interesting effect: the great majority of these converts lived in what is now
Pakistan; had they remained Hindu they would in all probability have been involved in and
suffered by the mass displacement and all the other terrible and horrible happenings that
accompanied Partition in 1947.

Everything else that I have done or striven to do, enjoyed or suffered, has been of necessity
secondary. With this important reservation clearly stated, I think I can give an account of
many of the other events and experiences of my life. I have tried all the years I spent in public
life to do my best so far as I could. It is not possible for me to assess the success or failure of
what I have tried to do; final judgment lies elsewhere.

But since I have witnessed this rapid and all-developing process of change in every domain
of human interest and experience — the technical and mechanical revolution of our time,
man's developing mastery of natural forces, the recognition of the importance of the
subconscious, the vast increase in longevity, the rise of new moral standards and the
corresponding profound changes in outlook, and great political changes undreamed of in my
youth — I hope in these coming chapters to give some picture of each epoch as it unfolded
before the eyes and in the mind and heart of one who was usually an onlooker but sometimes
and actively a participant.

Islam, the Religion of My Ancestors

THE ORIGINS of man's religious aspirations are to be found in what we nowadays call
science. Those who have studied mythology and primitive psychology know that magic in
various forms started various trains of thought in primitive man by which he achieved what
seemed to him to be rational accounts of the natural phenomena around him. It seemed to him
rational that these phenomena, these events like the rising and the setting of the sun, the
passage of the seasons, the flowering of the bud and the ripening of the fruit, the wind and the
rain, were caused and controlled by deities or superior beings. Primitive religious experience
and primitive scientific reasoning were linked together in magic, in wizardry. Thus, at one
and the same time mankind's experiences in the realm of sensation and his strivings to
explain and co-ordinate those experiences in terms of his mind led to the birth of both science
and religion. The two remained linked throughout prehistoric and ancient times, and in the
life of the early empires of which we have knowledge. It was difficult to separate what I may
call proto-religion from proto-science; they made their journey like two streams, sometimes
mingling, sometimes separating, but running side by side.

Such is the background to Greek and Roman thought and culture as well as to ancient Iranian
and Hindu philosophy before the beginning of the Christian era. Aristotle, however, gave a
more scientific turn to this mingling, introducing categories and concepts which were purely

reasonable, and shedding those vestiges of religious awe and mystery which are visible even
in Plato.

With the decline of the Roman Empire and the break-up of the great and elaborate system of
civilization which Roman law and administration had sustained for so many centuries, the
Dark Ages enfolded Europe. In the seventh century of the Christian era there was a rapid and
brilliant new flowering of humanity's capacity and desire for adventure and discovery in the
realms of both spirit and intellect. That flowering began in Arabia; its origin and impetus
were given to it by my Holy ancestor, the Prophet Mohammed, and we know it by the name
of Islam. From Arabia the tide of its influence flowed swiftly and strongly to North Africa
and thence to Spain.

Ibn-Rushd, the great Muslim philosopher, known to Europe as Averroes, established clearly
the great distinction between two kinds of apprehensible human experience: on the one hand,
our experience of nature as we recognize it through our senses, whence comes our capacity to
measure and to count (and with that capacity all that it brought in the way of new events and
new explanations); and on the other hand, our immediate and immanent experience of
something more real, less dependent on thought or on the processes of the mind, but directly
given to us, which I believe to be religious experience. Naturally, since our brain is material,
and its processes and all the consequences of its processes are material, the moment that we
put either thought or spiritual experience into words, this material basis of the brain must give
a material presentation to even the highest, most transcendent spiritual experience. But men
can study objectively the direct and subjective experiences of those who have had spiritual
enlightenment without material intervention.

It is said that we live, move and have our being in God. We find this concept expressed often
in the Koran, not in those words of course, but just as beautifully and more tersely. But when
we realize the meaning of this saying, we are already preparing ourselves for the gift of the
power of direct experience. Roumi and Hafiz, the great Persian poets, have told us, each in
his different way, that some men are born with such natural spiritual capacities and
possibilities of development that they have direct experience of that great love, that all-
embracing, all-consuming love, which direct contact with reality gives to the human soul.
Hafiz indeed has said that men like Jesus Christ and Muslim mystics like Mansour and
Bayezid and others have possessed that spiritual power of the greater love; that any of us, if
the Holy Spirit * ever present grants us that enlightenment, can, being thus blessed, have the
power which Christ had, but that to the overwhelming majority of men this greater love is not
a practical possibility. We can, however, make up for its absence from our lives by worldly,
human love for individual human beings; and this will give us a measure of enlightenment
attainable without the intervention of the Holy Spirit. Those who have had the good fortune
to know and feel this worldly, human love should respond to it only with gratitude and regard
it as a blessing and as, in its own way, a source of pride. I firmly believe that the higher
experience can to a certain extent be prepared for by absolute devotion in the material world
to another human being. Thus from the most worldly point of view and with no
comprehension of the higher life of the spirit, the lower, more terrestrial spirit makes us
aware that all the treasures of this life, all that fame, wealth and health can bring are nothing

beside the happiness which is created and sustained by the love of one human being for
another. This great grace we can see in ordinary life as we look about us, among our
acquaintances and friends.

But as the joys of human love surpass all that riches and power may bring a man, so does that
greater spiritual love and enlightenment, the fruit of that sublime experience of the direct
vision of reality which is God's gift and grace, surpass all that the finest, truest human love
can offer. For that gift we must ever pray.

Now I am convinced that through Islam, through the ideal of Allah, as presented by Muslims,
man can attain this direct experience which no words can explain but which for him are
absolute certainties. I have not discussed experience of this order with nonMuslims, but I
have been told that Buddhists, Brahmins, Zoroastrians and Christians — I have often heard it
of Jews, except perhaps Spinoza — have also attained this direct, mystical vision. I am certain
that many Muslims, and I am convinced that I myself, have had moments of enlightenment
and of knowledge of a kind which we cannot communicate because it is something given and
not something acquired.

To a certain extent I have found that the following verse of the Koran, so long as it is
understood in a purely nonphysical sense, has given assistance and understanding to myself
and other Muslims. However, I must warn all who read it not to allow their material critical
outlook to break in with literal, verbal explanations of something that is symbolic and
allegorical. I appeal to every reader, whether Muslim or not, to accept the spirit of this verse
in its entirety:

Allah is the light of the heavens and the earth; His light is as a niche in which is a lamp, and
the lamp is in a glass, the glass is as though it were a glittering star; it is lit from a blessed
tree, an Olive neither of east nor of the west, the oil of which would well-nigh give light
though no fire touched it, — light upon light; — Allah guides to His light whom He pleases;
and Allah strikes our parables for men; and Allah all things doth know.

(CHAPTER XXIV "Light," 35)

From that brief statement of my own personal beliefs, I move on to as concise and as
uncontroversial an exposition as I can give of Islam as it is understood and practiced today.
The present condition of mankind offers surely, with all its dangers and all its challenges, a
chance too — a chance of establishing not just material peace among nations but that better
peace of God on earth. In that endeavor Islam can play its valuable constructive part, and the
Islamic world can be a strong and stabilizing factor provided it is really understood and its
spiritual and moral power recognized and respected.

I shall try to give in a small compass a clear survey of the fundamentals of Islam, by which I
mean those principles, those articles of faith, and that way of life, all of which are universally
accepted among all Muslim sects. First therefore, I shall propound those Islamic tenets which
are held in common by the larger community of Sunnis, and by Shias as well. Having thus
made as clear as I can the faith which binds us all as Muslims, I shall then give a brief sketch

of Shia doctrine and of those special tenets held by that sub division of the Shias known as
the Ismailis, the sect of which I am the Imam.

First it must be understood that, though these fundamental ideals are universally accepted by
Muslims, there does not exist in Islam and there has never existed any source of absolute
authority; we have no Papal Encyclical to propound and sanction a dogma, such as Roman
Catholics possess, and no Thirty-nine Articles like those which state the doctrinal position of
the Church of England. The Prophet Mohammed had two sources of authority, one religious
which was the essential one of his life, and the other secular which, by the circumstances and
accidents of his career, became joined to his essential and Divinely inspired authority in
religion.

According to the Sunni school — the majority of Muslims — the Prophet's religious authority
came to an end at his death, and he appointed no successor to his secular authority. According
to Sunni teaching, the faithful, the companions of the Prophet, the believers, elected Abu
Bakr as his successor and his Khalif; but Abu Bakr assumed only the civil and secular power.
No one had the authority to succeed to the religious supremacy, which depended on direct
Divine inspiration, because the Prophet Mohammed and the Koran declared definitely that he
was the final messenger of God, the Absolute. Thus, say the Sunnis, it was impossible to
constitute an authority similar to that of the Papacy; it remained for the Faithful to interpret
the Koran, the example and the sayings of the Prophet, not only in order to understand Islam
but to ensure its development throughout the centuries. Fortunately the Koran has itself made
this task easy, for it contains a number of verses which declare that Allah speaks to man in
allegory and parable. Thus the Koran leaves the door open for all kinds of possibilities of
interpretation so that no one interpreter can accuse another of being non-Muslim. A felicitous
effect of this fundamental principle of Islam that the Koran is constantly open to allegorical
interpretation has been that our Holy Book has been able to guide and illuminate the thought
of believers, century after century, in accordance with the conditions and limitations of
intellectual apperception imposed by external influences in the world. It leads also to a
greater charity among Muslims, for since there can be no cut-and-dried interpretation, all
schools of thought can unite in the prayer that the Almighty in His infinite mercy may forgive
any mistaken interpretation of the Faith whose cause is ignorance or misunderstanding.

I am trying to put before my Western readers, not the doctrine of the Ismaili sect to which I
belong, not Shia doctrine, nor the teachings of the Sufi school of Islamic mysticism, of men
such as Jalaleddin Roumi or Bayazid Bostami, nor even the views of certain modern Sunni
interpreters who, not unlike certain Christian sects, look for literal guidance in the Koran as
Christians of these sects find it in the Old and New Testaments; but the main and central
Sunni stream of thought, whose source is in the ideas of the school founded by al-Ghazali and
whose influence and teaching have flowed on from century to century.

for and among those races of the earth which had sufficiently advanced intellectually to
comprehend such a message. Thus Abraham, Moses, Jesus and all the Prophets of Israel are
universally accepted by Islam. Muslims indeed know no limitation merely to the Prophets of
Israel; they are ready to admit that there were similar Divinely inspired messengers in other
countries — Gautama Buddha, Shri Krishna and Shri Ram in India, Socrates in Greece, the
wise men of China, and many other sages and saints among peoples and civilizations, trace of
which we have lost. Thus man's soul has never been left without a specially inspired
messenger from the soul that sustains, embraces and is the universe. Then what need was
there for a Divine revelation to Mohammed? The answer of Islam is precise and clear. In
spite of its great spiritual strength, Jewish monotheism has retained two characteristics which
render it essentially different from Islamic monotheism: God has remained, in spite of all, a
national and racial God for the children of Israel, and His personality is entirely separate from
its supreme manithere can be no cut-and-dried interpretation, all schools of thought can unite
in the prayer that the Almighty in His infinite mercy may forgive any mistaken interpretation
of the Faith whose cause is ignorance or misunderstanding.

First, however, we must ask ourselves why this final and consummate appearance of the
Divine Will was granted to mankind, and what were its causes. All Islamic schools of thought
accept it as a fundamental principle that for centuries, for thousands of years before the
advent of Mohammed, there arose from time to time messengers, illumined by Divine Grace,
for and among those races of the earth which had sufficiently advanced intellectually to
comprehend such a message. Thus Abraham, Moses, Jesus and all the Prophets of Israel are
universally accepted by Islam. Muslims indeed know no limitation merely to the Prophets of
Israel; they are ready to admit that there were similar Divinely inspired messengers in other
countries — Gautama Buddha, Shri Krishna and Shri Ram in India, Socrates in Greece, the
wise men of China, and many other sages and saints among peoples and civilizations, trace of
which we have lost. Thus man's soul has never been left without a specially inspired
messenger from the soul that sustains, embraces and is the universe. Then what need was
there for a Divine revelation to Mohammed? The answer of Islam is precise and clear. In
spite of its great spiritual strength, Jewish monotheism has retained two characteristics which
render it essentially different from Islamic monotheism: God has remained, in spite of all, a
national and racial God for the children of Israel, and His personality is entirely separate from
its supreme manifestation, the Universe. In far-distant countries such as India and China, the
purity of the Faith in the one God had been so vitiated by polytheism, by idolatry and even by
a pantheism which was hardly distinguishable from atheism that these popular and folklore
religions bore little resemblance to that which emanated from the true and pure Godhead.

Christianity lost its strength and meaning for Muslims in that it saw its great and glorious
founder not as a man but as God incarnate in man, as God made Flesh. Thus there was an
absolute need for the Divine Word's revelation, to Mohammed himself, a man like the others,
of God's person and of his relations to the Universe which he had created. Once man has thus
comprehended the essence of existence, there remains for him the duty, since he knows the
absolute value of his own soul, of making for himself a direct path which will constantly lead
his individual soul to and bind it with the universal Soul of which the Universe — as much of
it as we perceive with our limited vision — is one of the infinite manifestations. Thus Islam's
basic principle can only be defined as monorealism and not as monotheism. Consider, for
example, the opening declaration of every Islamic prayer: "Allah-o-Akbar." What does that
mean? There can be no doubt that the second word of the declaration likens the character of
Allah to a matrix which contains all and gives existence to the infinite, to space, to time, to
the Universe, to all active and passive forces imaginable, to life and to the soul. Imam Hassan
has explained the Islamic doctrine of God and the Universe by analogy with the sun and its
reflection in the pool of a fountain; there is certainly a reflection or image of the sun, but with
what poverty and with what little reality; how small and pale is the likeness between this
impalpable image and the immense, blazing, white-hot glory of the celestial sphere itself.
Allah is the sun; and the Universe, as we know it in all its magnitude, and time, with its
power, are nothing more than the reflection of the Absolute in the mirror of the fountain.

There is a fundamental difference between the Jewish idea of creation and that of Islam. The
creation according to Islam is not a unique act in a given time but a perpetual and constant
event; and God supports and sustains all existence at every moment by His will and His
thought. Outside His will, outside His thought, all is nothing, even the things which seem to
us absolutely self-evident such as space and time. Allah alone wishes: the Universe exists;
and all manifestations are as a witness of the Divine will. I think that I have sufficiently
explained the difference between the Islamic doctrine of the unity of God and, on one side,
the theistic ideas, founded upon the Old Testament, and on the other, the pantheistic and
dualistic ideas of the Indian religion and that of Zoroaster. But having known the real, the
Absolute, having understood the Universe as an infinite succession of events, intended by
God, we need an ethic, a code of conduct in order to be able to elevate ourselves toward the
ideal demanded by God.

Let us then study the duties of man, as the great majority interpret them, according to the
verses of the Koran and the Traditions of the Prophet. First of all, the relations of man to
God: there are no priests and no monks. There is no confession of sins, except directly to
God.

A man who does not marry, who refuses to shoulder the responsibilities of fatherhood, of
building up a home and raising a family through marriage, is severely condemned. In Islam
there are no extreme renunciations, no asceticism, no maceration, above all no flagellations to
subjugate the body. The healthy human body is the temple in which the flame of the Holy
Spirit burns, and thus it deserves the respect of scrupulous cleanliness and personal hygiene.
Prayer is a daily necessity, a direct communication of the spark with the universal flame.
Reasonable fasting for a month in every year, provided a man's health is not impaired

thereby, is an essential part of the body's discipline through which the body learns to
renounce all impure desires. Adultery, alcoholism, slander and thinking evil of one's neighbor
are specifically and severely condemned. All men, rich and poor, must aid one another
materially and personally. The rules vary in detail, but they all maintain the principle of
universal mutual aid in the Muslim fraternity. This fraternity is absolute, and it comprises
men of all colors and all races: black, white, yellow, tawny; all are the sons of Adam in the
flesh and all carry in them a spark of the Divine Light. Everyone should strive his best to see
that this spark be not extinguished but rather developed to that full "Companionship-on-
High" which was the vision expressed in the last words of the Prophet on his deathbed, the
vision of that blessed state which he saw clearly awaiting him. In Islam the Faithful believe in
Divine justice and are convinced that the solution of the great problem of predestination and
free will is to be found in the compromise that God knows what man is going to do, but that
man is free to do it or not.

Wars are condemned. Peace ought to be universal. Islam means peace, God's peace with man
and the peace of men one to another. Usury is condemned, but free and honest trade and
agriculture — in all its forms — are encouraged, since they manifest a Divine service, and the
welfare of mankind depends upon the continuation and the intensification of these legitimate
labors. Politically a republican form of government seems to be the most rightful; for in
Islamic countries, which have witnessed the development of absolute monarchies with a great
concentration of power within them, the election of the monarch has always remained a
lifeless formula which has simply legitimized the usurpation of power.

After death Divine justice will take into consideration the faith, the prayers and the deeds of
man. For the chosen there is eternal life and the spiritual felicity of the Divine vision. For the
condemned there is hell, where they will be consumed with regret for not having known how
to merit the grace and the blessing of Divine mercy.

Islamic doctrine goes further than the other great religions, for it proclaims the presence of
the soul, perhaps minute but nevertheless existing in an embryonic state, in all existence — in
matter, in animals, trees, and space itself. Every individual, every molecule, every atom has
its own spiritual relationship with the All-Powerful Soul of God. But men and women, being
more highly developed, are immensely more advanced than the infinite number of other
beings known to us. Islam acknowledges the existence of angels, of great souls who have
developed themselves to the highest possible planes of the human soul and higher, and who
are centers of the forces which are scattered throughout the Universe. Without going as far as
Christianity Islam recognizes the existence of evil spirits which seek by means of their secret
suggestions to us to turn us from good, from that straight way traced by God's finger for the
eternal happiness of the humblest as of the greatest — Abraham, Jesus, Mohammed.

Thus far I have described those tenets of Islam which are professed and held in common by
all Muslims of any and every sect or subsect. I now come to the divergence of the streams of
thought. The Sunnis are the people of the Sonna or tradition. Their Kalama or profession of
faith is "There is no God but God and Mohammed is the Apostle of God." To this the Shias

add: "And Ali, the companion of Mohammed, is the Vicar of God." Etymologically the word
"Shia" means either a stream or a section.

The Prophet died without appointing a Khalif or successor. The Shia school of thought
maintains that although direct Divine inspiration ceased at the Prophet's death, the need of
Divine guidance continued and this could not be left merely to millions of mortal men,
subject to the whims and gusts of passion and material necessity, capable of being
momentarily but tragically misled by greed, by oratory, or by the sudden desire for material
advantage. These dangers were manifest in the period immediately following our Holy
Prophet's death. Mohammed had been, as I have shown, both a temporal and a spiritual
sovereign. The Khalif or successor of the Prophet was to succeed him in both these
capacities; he was to be both Emir-al-Momenin or "commander of the true believers" and
Imam-al-Muslimin or "spiritual chief of the devout." Perhaps an analogy from the Latin,
Western world will make this clearer: he would be Supreme Pontiff as well as Imperator or
temporal ruler.

Ali, the Prophet's cousin and son-in-law, the husband of his beloved and only surviving child,
Fatima, his first convert, his bold champion in many a war, who the Prophet in his lifetime
said would be to him as Aaron was to Moses, his brother and right-hand man, in the veins of
whose descendants the Prophet's own blood would flow, appeared destined to be that true
successor; and such had been the general expectation of Islam. The Shias have therefore
always held that after the Prophet's death, Divine power, guidance and leadership manifested
themselves in Hazrat Ali as the first Imam or spiritual chief of the devout. The Sunnis,
however, consider him the fourth in the succession of Khalifs to temporal power. The Imam
is thus the successor of the Prophet in his religious capacity; he is the man who must be
obeyed and who dwells among those from whom he commands spiritual obedience. The
Sunnis have always held that this authority is merely temporal and secular, and is exerted
only in the political sphere; they believe therefore that it appertains to any lawfully
constituted political head of a state, to a governor or to the president of a republic. The Shias
say that this authority is all-pervading and is concerned with spiritual matters also, that it is
transferred by inherited right to the Prophet's successors of his blood.

How this came about is best described in the words of Mr. Justice Arnold in his judgment
delivered in the High Court of Bombay on November 12, 1866, in the great lawsuit brought
against my grandfather, to which I later refer.

"The influence of Ayesha, the young and favorite wife of Mohammed, a rancorous enemy of
Fatima and of Ali, procured the election of her own father Abu Bakr; to Abu Bakr succeeded
Omar, and to him Osman, upon whose death, in the year 655 of the Christian era, Ali was at
last raised to the Khalifat. He was not even then unopposed; aided by Ayesha, Moawiyah of
the family of the Ummayads, contested the Khalifat with him, and while the strife was still
doubtful, in the year A.D. 660, Ali was slain by a Kharegite, or Muslim fanatic, in the
mosque of Cufa, at that time the principal Muslim city on the right or west bank of the
Euphrates — itself long since a ruin, at no great distance from the ruins of Babylon."

Mr. Justice Arnold's judgment gives a lucid and moving account of the effect on Muslim life
and thought of this assassination and of the subsequent murders — nine years and twenty
years after their father — of Ali's two sons, Hassan and Hussein, the Prophet's beloved
grandchildren whom he himself had publicly hailed as "the foremost among the youths of
Paradise"; of the tragic and embittered hostility and misunderstanding that developed
between the two main Muslim sects, and all the sorrow and the strife that afflicted succeeding
generations.

Of the Shias there are many subdivisions; some of them believe that this spiritual headship,
this Imamat which was Hazrat Ali's, descended through him in the sixth generation to Ismail
from whom I myself claim my descent and my Imamat. Others believe that the Imamat is to
be traced from Zeid, the grandson of Imam Hussein, the Prophet's grandson martyred at
Kerbela. Still others, including the vast majority of the people of Persia, and Indian Shias,
believe that the Imamat is now held by a living Imam, the twelfth from Ali, who has never
died, who is alive and has lived thirteen hundred years among us, unseen but seeing; those
who profess this doctrine are known as the Asna Asharis. The Ismailis themselves are divided
into two parties, a division which stems from the period when my ancestors held the Fatimite
Khalifat of Egypt. One party accepts my ancestor, Nozar, as the rightful successor of the
Khalif of Egypt Mustansir; whereas the other claims as Imam his other son the Khalif
Mustalli.

Thenceforward the story of the Ismailis, of my ancestors and their followers, moves through
all the complexities, the ebb and flow, of Islamic history through many centuries. Gibbon, it
has been said, abandoned as hopeless the task of clearing up the obscurities of an Asiatic
pedigree; there is, however, endless fascination in the study of the web of characters and of
events, woven across the ages, which unites us in this present time with all these far-distant
glories, tragedies and mysteries. Often persecuted and oppressed, the faith of my ancestors
was never destroyed; at times it flourished as in the epoch of the Fatimite Khalifs, at times it
was obscure and little understood.

After the loss of the Fatimite Khalifat in Egypt my ancestors moved first to the highlands of
Syria and the Lebanon; thence they journeyed eastward to the mountains of Iran. They
established a stronghold on the craggy peak of Alamut in the Elburz Mountains, the range
which separates from the rest of Persia the provinces lying immediately to the south of the
Caspian. Legend and history intertwine here in the strange tale of the Old Man of the
Mountains, and of those hereditary Grand Masters of the Order of the Assassins who held
Alamut for nearly two hundred years. In this period the Ismaili faith was well known in Syria,
in Iraq, in Arabia itself, and far up into Central Asia. Cities such as Samarkand and Bokhara
were then great centers of Muslim learning and thought. A little later in the thirteenth century
of the Christian era, Ismaili religious propaganda penetrated into what is Sinkiang and
Chinese Turkestan. There was a time in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries when the
Ismaili doctrine was the chief and most influential Shi'ite school of thought; but later with the
triumph of the Saffevi Dynasty in Iran (particularly in its northwest province, Azerbaijan) the
Asna Ashari, or Twelfth Imam, sect established its predominance. Remnants of the Ismaili
faith remained firm and are still to be found in many parts of Asia, North Africa and Iran. The

historical centers of Ismailism indeed are scattered widely over all the Islamic world. In the
mountainous regions of Syria, for example, are to be found the Druzes, in their fastness in the
Jebel Druze. They are really Ismallis who did not originally follow my family in their
migration out of Egypt but remained with the memory of my ancestor, A1 Hakem, the
Fatimite Khalif of Egypt, but they established their doctrines on lines very similar to those of
the Syrian Ismailis, who, in present times, are my followers. Similar Ismaili "islands" exist in
southern Egypt, in the Yemen and of course in Iraq. In Iran the centers are around Mahalat,
westward toward Hamadan and to the south of Tehran; others are in Khorassan to the north
and east around about Yezd, around Kerman and southward along the coast of the Persian
Gulf from Bandar Abbas to the borders of Pakistan and Sind, and into Baluchistan. Others are
in Afghanistan, in Kabul itself; there are many in Russia and Central Asia, around Yarkand,
Kashgar and in many villages and settlements in Sinkiang. In India certain Hindu tribes were
converted by missionaries sent to them by my ancestor, Shah Islam Shah, and took the name
of Khojas; a similar process of conversion occurred in Burma as recently as the nineteenth
century.

Now that I have brought this brief record of Ismaili origin, vicissitudes and wanderings
within sight of the contemporary world, it may be timely to give an account in some detail of
the life and deeds of my grandfather, the first to be known as the Aga Khan, who emerged
into the light of history early in the nineteenth century of the Christian era. His life was (as
Mr. Justice Arnold observed) "adventurous and romantic." He was the hereditary chieftain of
the important city of Kerman and the son-in-law of the powerful and able Persian monarch,
Fateh Ali Shah, holding considerable territorial possessions in addition to his inherited
Imamat of the Ismailis.

In 1838 he was involved in conflict with the then ruling Emperor Mohammed Shah, for
reasons of which Mr. Justice Arnold gave the following account: "Hadji Mirza Ahasi, who
had been the tutor of Mohammed Shah, was during the whole reign of his royal pupil (from
1834 to 1848) the Prime Minister of Persia. A Persian of very low origin formerly in the
service of the Aga Khan, had become the chief favorite and minion of the all-powerful
minister. This person, though his patron, had the impudence to demand in marriage for his
son one of the daughters of the Aga Khan, a granddaughter of the late Shah-in-Shah! This,
says the Persian historian, was felt by the Aga Khan to be a great insult; and the request,
though strongly pressed by the Prime Minister, was indignantly refused. Having thus made
the most powerful man in Persia his deadly enemy, the Aga Khan probably felt that his best
chance of safety was to assert himself in arms — a course not uncommon with the great
feudatories of disorganized Persia. Making Kerman his headquarters, he appears to have kept
up the fight with varying fortunes through the years 1838-1839 and part of 1840. In the latter
year, overpowered by numbers, he was forced to flight and with difficulty made his escape,
attended by a few horsemen, through the deserts of Baluchistan to Sind."

In his wanderings of the next few years my grandfather encountered and rendered stout
assistance to the British in their process of military and imperial expansion northward and
westward from the Punjab. In Sind he raised and maintained a troop of light horse (the
descendants of whose survivors were so grave an anxiety to me many years later) and during

the latter stages of the first Afghan War, in 1841 and 1842, he and his cavalry were of service
to General Nott in Kardahar and to General England when he advanced out of Sind to join
Nott. For these services and for others which he rendered to Sir Charles Napier in his
conquest of Sind in 1843-1844, my grandfather received a pension from the British
Government.

In 1845 my grandfather reached Bombay where — as Mr. Justice Arnold expressed it — "he
was received by the cordial homage of the whole Khoja population of this city and its
neighborhood." For a year or two from 1846 he was in Calcutta as a political prisoner
because Mohammed Shah had remonstrated to the British Government about his presence in
a port of such ready access to Persia as Bombay. However, in 1848 Mohammed Shah's reign
came to an end, and my grandfather settled peaceably in Bombay and there established his
durkhana or headquarters. Not only was this a wise and happy personal decision, but it had an
admirable effect on the religious and communal life of the whole Ismaili world. It was as if
the heavy load of persecution and fanatical hostility, which they had had to bear for so long,
was lifted. Deputations came to Bombay from places as remote as Kashgar, Bokhara, all parts
of Iran, Syria, the Yemen, the African coast and the then narrowly settled hinterland behind
it.

Since then there has been no fundamental or violent change in the Ismaili way of life or in the
conditions in which my followers can pursue their own religion. At present no deputations
come from Russia, but Ismailis in Russia and in Central Asia are not persecuted and are quite
free in their religious life; they cannot of course send the tribute, which is merely a token
tribute and never has been the sort of mulcting which a few fanatical enemies of the Ismailis
have alleged it to be.

With Sinkiang, Kashgar and Yarkand we have no communication at present, since the
frontier is closed — no more firmly against Ismailis than against anyone else — but we know
that they are free to follow their religion and that they are firm and devoted Ismailis with a
great deal of self-confidence and the feeling that they constitute by far the most important
Ismaili community in the whole world. From Iran representatives and commissions come and
go; from Syria they used to come to India regularly, but now from time to time members of
my family go to Syria, or my Syrian followers come and visit me in Egypt. Not long ago I
went to Damascus where a great number of my followers came to pay their respects. In
nearly all those countries the greater part of the tribute to the Imam is spent on schools, or
prayer houses, and on the administration of various religious and social institutions. A
considerable measure of local responsibility prevails; questions of marriage and divorce, for
example, are entirely the concern of the local representative of the Imam. At times prosperous
communities among the Ismailis help less prosperous ones in respect to similar institutions. I
issue general instructions and orders; but the actual day-to-day administrative work of each
local community is done by the Imam's representative and local chief. Many of these local
headships throughout Central Asia, for example, are hereditary. But we have no general,
regular system. Sometimes a son succeeds, sometimes a grandson. Sometimes he is known as
Vizir, or Kamdar (a title which by constant use has degenerated into Kamria). Sometimes he

is Rais or Rai. In Syria the Imam's representatives are known as Amirs; in some parts of
Central Asia such as Hunza, the word "Amir" has been colloquialized and shortened to Mir.

The headship of a religious community spread over a considerable part of the world surface —
from Cape Town to Kashgar, from Syria to Singapore — cannot be sustained in accordance
with any cut-anddried system. Moral conditions, material facilities, national aspirations and
outlook and profoundly differing historical backgrounds have to be borne in mind, and the
necessary mental adjustments made.

There is therefore great variety and great flexibility of administration. In the British,
Portuguese and French colonies of East Africa, in Uganda, Portuguese East Africa,
Madagascar, Natal and Cape Colony there is a highly developed and civilized administrative
system of councils. Educational administrators, property agents, executive and judicial
councils all perform an immense amount of day-today administrative work, and under my
general orders vast financial administration as well.

In India and Pakistan there is a similar technique of administration but in a less developed
and looser form. In Burma and Malaya the organization closely resembles that of the Ismailis
in Africa. Syria, Iran and the Northwest Frontier Province of Pakistan are all countries with
their strongly marked individuality, historical background and traditions. These historical
variations over centuries, the accessibility, or lack of it, for many of the more isolated
communities, and the development of communications between my family and my followers
have all had their effect.

In Central Asia the leadership of the Ismailis is by inheritance in the hands of certain families
and has been handed down in continuous line through centuries. This is true of my followers
in Afghanistan, and in Russia and Chinese Turkestan, where certain families have been since
their conversion to Islam administrators and representatives of the Imam. The local
leadership passes down in a close connection of kinship from one generation to another.
Sometimes it is the hereditary chieftain and occasionally — as in the case of Hunza — the
secular king, himself an Ismaili, who is the administrator of the religious brotherhood.

The correspondence which I maintain with all these far-scattered communities is affected by
local circumstances. In Baghdad I have special representatives who deal with Arabian
matters; in Iran I have special representatives in every province who deal with Ismaili affairs,
who are also generally members of families that have as a matter of inheritance supplied local
Ismaili leaders for probably as long as these people have been linked with my family. In
Syria, one such family of representatives has retained an unbroken connection with my
family for more than a thousand years.

Ismailism has survived because it has always been fluid. Rigidity is contrary to our whole
way of life and outlook. There have really been no cut-and-dried rules; even the set of
regulations known as the Holy Laws are directions as to method and procedure and not
detailed orders about results to be obtained. In some countries -India and Africa for example -
- the Ismailis have a council system, under which their local councilors are charged with all
internal administrative responsibility, and report to me what they have done. In Syria, Central

Asia and Iran, leadership, as I have said, is vested in hereditary recommended leaders and
chiefs, who are the Imam's the organization closely resembles that of the Ismailis in Africa.
Syria, Iran and the Northwest Frontier Province of Pakistan are all countries with their
strongly marked individuality, historical background and traditions. These historical
variations over centuries, the accessibility, or lack of it, for many of the more isolated
communities, and the development of communications between my family and my followers
have all had their effect.

From all parts of the Ismaili world with which regular contact is politically possible a
constant flow of communications and reports comes to me. Attending to these, answering
them, giving my solutions of specific problems presented to me, discharging my duties as
hereditary Imam of this far-scattered religious community and association — such is my
working life, and so it has been since I was a boy.

Much of the work of the Ismaili councils and of the Imam's representatives nowadays is
purely social, and is concerned with the proper contractual arrangement of matters such as
marriage and divorce. On this subject I should perhaps say that nowhere in the world where
Ismailis are now settled is there any persecution of them or interference with their faith and
customs except if and when the general laws of the country are contrary to institutions, such

as plurality of wives. It is generally overlooked that among Ismailis no one can take a second
wife or divorce his first wife for a whim or — as is sometimes falsely imagined in the West —
some frivolous or erratic pretext. There are usually, to our way of thinking, some very good
reasons for either action. To beget children is a very proper need and desire in every
marriage; if after many years of married life there is still no issue, often a wife herself longs
to see her home brightened by the presence of children with all the laughter, hope, joy and
deep contentment that they bring with them. In other instances there is so profound a
difference of character that a divorce is found to be the best solution for the happiness of both
parties. But in every case — whether a second wife is taken or a divorce is granted — the
various councils or (where there are no councils) the representatives of the Imam have an
absolute duty to safeguard the interests of the wife; if a second wife is taken, it is a matter of
seeing that full financial protection is assured to the first wife, or if there is a divorce, of
seeing that there is a generous, adequate and seemly monetary settlement. It is important that
it should be realized among non-Muslims that the Islamic view of the institution of marriage -
- and of all that relates to it, divorce, plurality of wives and so on - is a question solely of
contract, of consent and of definite and mutually accepted responsibilities. The sacramental
concept of marriage is not Islam's; therefore except indirectly there is no question of its
religious significance, and there is no religious ceremony to invest it with the solemnity and
the symbolism which appertain to marriage in other religions, like Christianity and Hinduism.
It is exactly analogous to — in the West — an entirely civil and secular marriage in a registry
office or before a judge. Prayers of course can be offered — prayers for happiness, prosperity
and good health — but there can be no religious ritual beyond these, and they indeed are
solely a matter of personal choice. There is therefore no kind of marriage in Islam, or among
the Ismailis, except the marriage of mutual consent and mutual understanding. And as I have
indicated, much of the work of the Ismaili councils and of the Imam's representatives in all
our Ismaili communities is to see that marriages are properly registered and to ensure that
divorce, though not a sin, is so executed that the interests of neither party suffer from it, that
as much protection as possible is given to women, and most of all that the maintenance of
young children is safeguarded.

The past seventy years have witnessed steady, stable progress on the part of the Ismailis
wherever they have settled. Under the Ottoman Empire, in the reign of Abdul Hamid, there
was a considerable degree of persecution. A minority, like several other minorities in his
empire, they suffered hardship, and many of their leaders endured imprisonment in the latter
years of his despotic rule. With the Young Turk revolution, however, the period of
persecution ended. And now, in spite of all the vast political shifts and changes which the
world has undergone, I think it may reasonably be claimed that the lot of the Ismailis in
general throughout the world is a fairly satisfactory one; wherever they are settled their
communities compose a happy, self-respecting, law-abiding and industrious element in
society.

What has been my own policy with my followers? Our religion is our religion, you either
believe in it or you do not. You can leave a faith but you cannot, if you do not accept its
tenets, remain within it and claim to "reform" it. You can abandon those tenets, but you

cannot try to change them and still protest that you belong to the particular sect that holds
them. Many people have left the Ismaili faith, just as others have joined it throughout the
ages. About a score of people out of many millions — a small group in Karachi and in India —
pretended to be Ismailis but called themselves "reformers." The true Ismailis immediately
excommunicated them. There has never been any question of changing the Ismaili faith; that
faith has remained the same and must remain the same. Those who have not believed in it
have rightly left it; we bear them no ill-will and respect them for their sincerity.

What about political guidance? It has been the practice of my ancestors, to which I have
strictly adhered, always to advise Ismailis to be absolutely loyal and devoted subjects of the
State — whatever its constitution, monarchical or republican — of which they are citizens.
Neither my ancestors nor I have ever tried to influence our followers one way or another, but
we have told them that the constituted legal authority of any country in which they abide
must have their full and absolute loyalty. Similarly if any government approaches me and
asks me for my help and my advice to its subjects, this advice is invariably — as was my
father's and my grandfather's — that they must be loyal and law-abiding, and if they have any
political grievances they must approach their government as legally constituted, and in
loyalty and fidelity to it. All my teaching and my guidance for my followers has been in
fulfillment of this principle: render unto God the things which are God's and to Caesar those
which are Caesar's.

In matters of social reform I have tried to exert my influence and authority sensibly and
progressively. I have always sought to encourage the emancipation and education of women.
In my grandfather's and my father's time the Ismailis were far ahead of any other Muslim sect
in the matter of the abolition of the strict veil, even in extremely conservative countries. I
have absolutely abolished it; nowadays you will never find an Ismaili woman wearing the
veil. Everywhere I have always encouraged girls' schools, even in regions where otherwise
they were completely unknown. I say with pride that my Ismaili followers are, in this matter
of social welfare, far in advance of any other Muslim sect. No doubt it is possible to find
individuals equally advanced, but I am convinced that our social conditions as a body —
education for both boys and girls, marriage and domestic outlook and customs, the control
over divorce, the provision for children in the event of divorce, and so forth — are far ahead.
We were pioneers in the introduction of midwifery, and long before any other Muslim
community in the Middle East, we had trained nurses for childbirth. With the support and
help of Lady Dufferin's nursing association in India, I was able — at a time when normal
conditions in these matters were terribly unsanitary — to introduce a modern outlook on
childbirth, with trained midwives, not only in India and Burma but in Africa and (so far as
general conditions permitted) in Syria and Iraq.

In Africa, where I have been able to give active help as well as advice, we have put the
finances of individuals and of the various communities on a thoroughly safe basis. We
established an insurance company — the Jubilee Insurance — whose shares have greatly
increased in value. We also set up what we called an investment trust, which is really a vast
association for receiving money and then putting it out on loan, at a low rate of interest, to
Ismaili traders and to people who want to buy or build their own houses.

About my own personal wealth a great deal of nonsense has been written. There must be
hundreds of people in the United States with a larger capital wealth than mine; and the same
is true of Europe. Perhaps not many people, in view of the incidence of taxation, even in the
United States, have the control over an income that I exercise; but this control carries with it -

- as an unwritten law — the upkeep of all the various communal, social and religious
institutions of my Ismaili following, and in the end only a small fraction of it — if any — is
left for members of my family and myself.

When I read about the "millions of pounds a year" I am supposed to possess, I know only that
if I had an income of that size I should be ashamed of myself. There is a great deal of truth in
Andrew Carnegie's remark: "The man who dies rich, dies disgraced." I should add: The man
who lives rich, lives disgraced. By “lives rich" I mean the man who lives and spends for his
own pleasure at a rate and on a scale of living in excess of that customary among those called
nowadays "the upper income group" in the country of which he is a citizen. I am not a
communist, nor do I believe that a high standard of private life is a sin and an affront to
society. I feel no flicker of shame at owning three or four cars; in India, where a great many
people from outside come and go, I always have more cars for their use.

Nor am I ashamed of being the owner of a big racing stable, about which I propose to say
something in a later chapter. My family, as I have indicated, have had a long, honorable and
affectionate association with horsemanship in all its forms. Had I to contemplate either giving
up a considerable number of horses in training or turning the stable into a paying concern, I
have no doubt that by selling a considerable proportion of my stock I could turn it into a
paying business any day of the week. Neither my grandfather, my father nor I have ever
looked on our racing as simply a money-making matter, but as a sport which, by careful
attention and thoughtful administration, could become self-supporting and a permanent
source of pleasure not only for ourselves, as owners, but for thousands — indeed for millions -

- who follow our colors on the turf; and we have considered our studs and our training stables
as sources of wealth for the countries in which they are maintained and of practical
usefulness from the point of view of preserving and raising the standard of bloodstock.

A specific charge of extravagance against our family related to the period in which some two
thousand people a day were living and feeding at our expense. These two thousand were,
after all, descendants and dependents of people who had exiled themselves from Iran with my
grandfather and had given up their homes and estates, and in the conditions of the time we, as
heads of the Ismaili community, were responsible for their welfare and maintenance. As soon
as I could, and as thoroughly as I could, I dealt with that problem, so that now their
descendants are far happier and far more self-reliant than they were, and I have nothing on
my conscience about the way in which I dealt with it.

I would have been a profoundly unhappy man if I had possessed one tenth of the fabulous
amount of wealth which people say that I have at my disposal, for then indeed I should have
felt all my life that I was carrying a dead weight — useless alike to my family and my friends
or, for that matter, to my followers. Beyond a certain point wealth and the material
advantages which it brings do more harm than good, to societies as to individuals.

So far as their way of life is concerned, I have tried to vary the advice which I have given to
my followers in accordance with the country or state in which they live. Thus in the British
colony of East Africa I strongly urge them to make English their first language, to found their
family and domestic lives along English lines and in general to adopt British and European
customs — except in the matter of alcohol and slavery to tobacco. I am convinced that living
as they must in a multiracial society, the kind of social life and its organization which gives
them the greatest opportunities to develop their personalities and is the most practically
useful is the one which they ought to follow. On the other hand, to those who live in Burma I
have given the same sort of advice — but that they should follow a Burman way of life rather
than any other. In Muslim countries like Syria, Egypt, Iraq and Iran of course there are no
difficulties at all. My own family's home and social life has always followed an Iranian-
Muslim pattern; this has involved no violent or radical readjustment wherever I have lived, so
that the European ladies whom I have married, one after the other, have in fact easily and
happily acquired an Iranian-Muslim outlook and rhythm of life.

In Africa, however, my followers faced a much more acute problem. They arrived there with
Asiatic habits and an Asiatic pattern of existence, but they encountered a society in process of
development which is, if anything, European- African. To have retained an Asiatic outlook in
matters of language, habits and clothing would have been for them a complication and
socially a dead weight of archaism in the Africa of the future. In Pakistan and modem Bharat
the Ismailis are likely in the future to assume two totally different patterns of culture. In West
Pakistan they will probably speak Urdu or what used to be called Hindustani, and their social
habits and customs will be molded accordingly. In East Pakistan Bengali dress and language
will play a major part in Ismaili life. In Bharat the languages which they will speak will
probably be Gujerati and Marathi, and their outlook and way of life similarly will take on a
Gujerati-Marathi shape. Yet I am certain that so long as they retain their faith the brotherhood
of Islam will unite all these people of varying social outlook and patterns of behavior and will
keep them together in spirit.

-31-

III

Boyhood in India

MY FIRST CONSCIOUS MEMORY is of something that happened when I was a child of
three and a half. I have a clear recollection of an old man, almost blind, seated on a gray Arab
horse, peering to watch a line of horses galloping in training. The time was February or
March, 1881; the old man was my grandfather, the Aga Khan, whose name, title, privileges
and responsibilities I was to inherit. I too was on a pony, standing near my grandfather, and I
was held up in the saddle by a man on either side of me. The scene was Bombay, where my
grandfather, after the years of wandering and various vicissitudes described earlier, had
settled with most of his family and a considerable retinue.

I was bom in Karachi on November 2, 1877, but I spent the whole of my boyhood and youth
in Bombay and Poona. That was a Bombay in countless respects inconceivably different from
the huge, glittering, commercial and industrial city that is present-day Bombay. It is true that

it was a large and prosperous port, the capital of the Bombay Presidency, one of the leading
provinces of British India, the seat of a Governor and his Administration, and of an
impressive judicature, and the headquarters of a not inconsiderable army. The outstanding
difference between that Bombay and Bombay today lies, of course, in the two words "British
India." If the capital and focus of the British Raj in India lay, in those days, many hundreds of
miles to the northeast in Calcutta (and in the summers in the hill town of Simla), there was in
Bombay a long and close tradition of association with Britain. Had not indeed Bombay first
been joined to the possessions of the British Crown as part of the dowry of Catherine of
Braganza, the wife of Charles II?

The Bombay of the mid- nineteenth century in which my grandfather settled was a much
smaller, more compact city than its present-day descendant. The home — or homes — of my
family covered a great deal of some of the more densely populous and prosperous parts; even
in my childhood in the eighties it was a huge rambling place, taking in most of two divisions
of the present city, Mazagaon and Byculla, stretching from Nesbit Road to Hassanarbad, my
grandfather's tomb. This would be comparable to a large part of the West End of London or
downtown Manhattan being a single enclosed estate; or to put it in terms of Paris, an
enclosure in length from, say, the Madeleine to well beyond the Opera, and in breadth from
the Madeleine to the Pont d'lena. Within this great area there were several big palaces and
innumerable smaller houses and outbuildings; there were gardens and fountains and also a
small zoo. There were many stables, since the equine population of the estate — evidence of
my grandfather's inherited and persistent interest in and love for horse racing and horse
breeding — never numbered less than a hundred.

The human population, of course, was far more numerous, and with endless ramifications,
divisions and subdivisions. It was the household of a political pretender (in the proper sense
of that word) of accepted standing. My grandfather in his migration from Persia had brought
with him more than a thousand relatives, dependents, clients, associates, personal and
political supporters, ranging from the humblest groom or servant to a man of princely stature,
a direct near-descendant of Nadirshah of Delhi fame, who had taken my grandfather's side in
the disputes and troubles in Persia and with him had gone into exile.

With the passage of years, however, it had become no longer exile. My grandfather had been
confirmed in his rights and titles by a judgment of the Bombay High Court in 1886. * He was
an accepted and honored leader of the community, accorded princely status by the British Raj
and its representatives in India. Aga Hall, our Bombay home, was his chief seat, but he had
another palace, or group of palaces, in Poona, whither we all made seasonal migrations. His
life and his world, the life and world into which I was born, were feudal in a fashion far
removed from, and indeed not understood by, people of the present day. He was the head and
center of a loose but clearly comprehended system of allegiance and adherence; wherever he
went, his home, even if only temporary, was a focus of loyalty and homage — in the Ismaili
word, a durkhana, a place of pilgrimage to be visited from time to time by as many of his
associates and supporters as possible. This necessitated the maintenance of an impressive
establishment — a need reinforced by the circumstances of my grandfather's departure from
Persia and by the number of dependents whom he brought with him.

His family and his dependents, his sons and their wives, his officials, servants and followers,
were disposed in a series of houses and palaces around him, both in Bombay and in Poona. In
course of time many of his Persian followers married Indian wives, many of them of Ismaili
families. They and their children remained under my grandfather's protection and, after his
death, under my father's and then under mine. When my grandfather died, there was a rough-
and-ready and unofficial division of property, though not of leadership and responsibility,
between my father — his sole rightful heir as Imam — and my various uncles and aunts. I was
my father's sole and unique heir in accordance with Muslim law — unlike my father in
relation to his grandfather.

From my earliest childhood I was trained to be conscious of my inheritance, and of the
magnitude of its responsibilities. My early years were in many ways difficult, even harsh. I
was the only surviving heir, for my two full brothers both died in infancy and my two half-
brothers in their young manhood. I was known to be delicate -a succession of English doctors
had prophesied, with somber unanimity, that I would not live to be twenty-five. I was
therefore watched over by my mother with extreme vigilance and trepidation. I was petted
and spoiled by nurses and foster-mothers and by a group of my mother's ladies in waiting,
many of whom were already elderly, in whose eyes I was the "petit prince cheri

* The judgment delivered on November 12, 1866 by Mr. Justice Arnold, contains a classic,
fully detailed account of the origins of Ismailism and of the beginnings of my family.

My childhood was saddened — and complicated — by my father's sudden death from
pneumonia, only a little over four years after my grandfather's. My father had inherited to the
full my grandfather's sporting interests, not only in horse breeding and racing but as a shot
and hunter of big game. In this latter pastime he was extremely skilled and utterly fearless,
for his bag over years consisted not only of thousands of deer of every kind and every sort of
game bird but of a great many tigers. In tiger shooting his courage was as great as his skill.
When the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII) paid his state visit to India, he was
entertained at Aga Hall by my grandfather, and commented with interest on the number of
tiger skins displayed. How, he asked, did my father get them?

Perhaps I should explain that ordinarily a tiger-shoot in India is conducted either (in the
north) from the back of a specially trained elephant or (elsewhere) from a platform
constructed in a tree overlooking a tiger's known or suspected haunt or lay.

"Do you go up trees?" asked the Prince of Wales, who — being stout — had doubtless recent
and rueful memories of being pushed and pulled up trees in this most exciting and aristocratic
of all varieties of big-game shooting.

"No," said my father, whose girth, though considerable, was not as great as his guest's, "I am
too fat for tree work. I can't climb up. I stand and shoot."

My father's death was occasioned not by any mishap when he was out after tiger, but by a
long day's water-fowling near Poona in August, 1885. There were several hours' heavy rain,

the going under foot was heavy and wet and my father was soaked to the skin. He caught a
severe chill which turned swiftly and fatally to pneumonia. He was dead eight days later.

This was, I can see now, the first big emotional and spiritual crisis of my life. It ended the
only carefree period I had ever known. There was at once a forlorn and kindly attempt to
prevent me from missing my father or being allowed to feel unhappy. But the prevalent sense
of deep mourning and sadness enveloped the eight-yearold boy that I was. As his heir I was
in a sense the immediate focus of a great new and pressing sense of responsibility. Our
family, our emigre dependents, our Ismaili supporters all over the Islamic world deeply
mourned my father's death, but they also turned to me, child as I was, now and for the rest of
my life henceforth entrusted with the sacred charge to which I had been born. The change in
my circumstances came home to me early and insistently. My father's body was embalmed
and brought from Poona to Bombay and thence sent to be buried at Nejaf on the west bank of
the Euphrates, near Cufa and the tomb of our ancestor the Imam Ali — One of the holiest
places on earth for the Shias. No sooner were these rites accomplished than a new regime was
immediately instituted for me.

It was, of course, a direct consequence of my new station, but to this day I cannot understand
why I did not die or turn into an utter dunce under the treatment which I was given. My
education for the responsibilities and tasks which I had inherited was serious and strenuous,
and it had to be fitted into a regular system of seasonal family migration. From November to
April during the cold weather of each year we were in Bombay; in April and May we were at
Mahabaleshwar; from June to October we were in Poona and in October we went for a short
spell to one of the smaller hill stations, thence back to Bombay. For ten years — from 1885 to
1895 — this system continued unchanged; there was no room for a holiday for me, a month, a
fortnight, even a week off the chain — at the most a rare day. And relentlessly was I held on
the chain.

This was the typical and unchanging pattern of my days: I was called between six and half
past and had my breakfast - a weak tea, bread, butter, jam and a Persian sweet. At seven,
whether I wanted to or not, I had an hour's riding — a canter or sometimes a gallop on one of
the Poona rides or on the racecourse or, at Bombay, along the sands. From eight to half-past
eleven I had lessons with my English and French teachers. Then I had luncheon, and I was
free until two o'clock. Thereafter I had three hours' instruction in Arabic. A drive or some
tennis in the garden or some sort of relaxation was then permitted until dinner at seven
o'clock. After dinner came the horror of horrors. I was set down to two hours of calligraphy
of the dreariest and most soul-destroying kind. My mother had been impressed by the advice
— the foolish advice as it turned out — of Arabic and Persian scholars and pedants, who had
assured her that calligraphy in the classical Persian and Arabic scripts was of the highest
importance, and they pointed out to her that my two halfbrothers who had died had both had
beautiful handwriting. My mother, my uncles and everyone else in our household united in
compelling me to this horrible calligraphy. It was in fact a very real martyrdom for me
because no one had realized that I was from birth so shortsighted that to read or write I had to
hold a book or paper an inch or two from my nose, and in my vision of the world further than
those few inches from my nose there was no definition and no delight, for everything I saw —

gardens, hills, sea or jungle -was a haze. The simplicity and the sadness of my affliction were
for years unnoticed, and how in the end it came to be rectified I shall describe a little later.

The discipline to which I was subjected was rigid, and even the little free time that I was
allowed was subject to invasion. For it was my duty, young as I was, to receive those of my
followers who came to our home to offer their loyal respect. Saturdays and feast days were
the usual occasions of the receptions, and my guests would sit in the garden, bowing and
paying compliments, bringing gifts and receiving thanks, blessings and benedictions. My part
in these ceremonies was august and ordained by tradition — but a child resented the fact that
they came in the small amount of free time allowed by the curriculum and never, never in
lesson time.

Such was the regime to which, at eight, I was subjected. Perhaps it might be appropriate to
give a brief account of my way of life in later years. However, I must stress that although I
have not changed my basic principles in outlook, there have obviously been certain marked
modifications in my pattern of existence. The Aga Khan who dined with Queen Victoria in
1898 was not quite the same person as the Aga Khan who had tea with Queen Eli z abeth in
1953. But throughout this long period I snatched hours out of my daily routine as even now I
snatch them for reading poetry, fiction, newspapers and literary and critical periodicals. This
has been a persistent trait in my character for sixty years. In the same way I have daily given
a certain amount of time to physical exercise. Until I was about fifty, the time that I gave to
physical exercise was devoted to boxing, Sandow's exercises, Indian clubs, long walks, and,
in the early years of the century, long cycling tours through France, Italy, Germany, and other
European countries. After I was fifty I had to substitute tennis and golf for these more violent
forms of exercise. And since I became sixty I have had to confine myself to golf and walking.

My social life also has naturally varied — not only because I myself have grown older but
because the economic conditions of the world before 1914 were totally different from those
of today. In the spheres in which I lived forty years ago and more, social activity was intense.
If not daily, certainly four or five days a week there were either dinner parties or luncheon
parties wherever I happened to find myself, and there was the same round of theater and
opera parties. Between the two wars this part of life very much decreased, and I might say
that social engagements dropped in the ratio of twenty to one hundred. After the Second
World War these social engagements have withered away — except when my wife and I ask a
few friends wherever I may be to lunch or opera or theater parties. The great social epoch was
between 1898 and the opening of the 1914 war. I knew most of the members of the royal
families of Europe whom I met over and over again, with the aristocracy and plutocracy that
were like satellites revolving about major planets whether in London or Paris, Rome, Berlin,
Monte Carlo or Cannes, Nice or Saint-Moritz. That social life is a thing of the past for me.
Really it came to an end with the outbreak of the 1914 war because the society I met between
the two wars was fundamentally a different one. To give an idea of the social change I might
say that between 1898 and 1914 I was a guest ninety-nine times out of one hundred and only
one per cent a host — between the two wars it became about fifty-fifty and gradually it came
down to be less and less; and since the last war I find that it is I who am the host nine times
out of ten.

Now with the changes in my own life and the society in which I move thus briefly assessed
against the background of nearly sixty years, how do I live now, when I am at home in my
villa at Cannes, when we are in our house in Bombay, or when we are in hotels in London or
Paris, in Venice, Geneva or Evian — some eight months in every year?

The day begins for me — as it has begun since my early youth — at 4 A.M. I wake up
automatically about that time and spend the first hour — between four and five — at intense
prayer. There are no statues in my bedroom but a special prayer carpet is always prepared and
my tasbee, my rosary, is always with me. At five I go back again to sleep and wake up some
time between eight and nine when I have immediately a breakfast of toast, tea, and honey —
but no butter. By ten I have looked at the newspapers, had a wash, am dressed and then
usually go out for a walk of anything between one and two miles, or I play nine holes of golf.
If there is rain I do not go out. Until about one o'clock I am at work with my secretaries,
dealing with my correspondence, writings and various business matters. I rarely leave
anything undone from one day to another and usually have very little leftovers. At one or one
thirty I lunch at Cannes in our own house, but everywhere else at some restaurant or other -
rarely in the hotel restaurant. Lunch is my main meal of the day and consists of fish, eggs or
meat, but only one of the three, and never a combination of the three — rice regularly, two
vegetables and cooked fruit, ice cream or sometimes pudding.

When in Paris or London, sometimes in the afternoon I may go to a race meeting, or I may
catch up with activities such as my correspondence, or my reading. About five or six a cup of
tea and then until seven or eight I usually try to read again, poetry, works of fiction,
magazines of literary criticism, and I read thoroughly the morning and evening newspapers.
Dinner consists only of fresh fruit. I never take anything cooked or salty at night. If the fmit
is not good, then a salad. When on rare occasions I am asked to dinner, I usually ask the host
to give me salad and fruit or such raw vegetables as celery, tomatoes, etc.

Both my wife and I are devoted to the theater, the opera, and the ballet. In towns like London
and Paris we go to one or the other four or five times a week and usually take a few friends
with us. In places like Cannes we occasionally go to the local theater during the season —
sometimes to the Nice opera or to Monte Carlo or similar places. I usually go to bed quickly
after the theater. My lifelong experience has taught me that sleep is like walking — you can
derive from four or five hours of sleep as much benefit as you can from eight or nine hours,
just as in twenty minutes' brisk walk you can get as much benefit as from two hours of
loitering about the streets and looking in shop windows. In a word, you can either sleep slow
or sleep fast. I am a firm believer in brisk sleeping. I am happy to say that while I sleep I
sleep; when I go to bed I have no time to lose — even if they wake me up for anything, I
immediately fall back; and practically all my life I have never had dreams. I think that is
owing to the fact that I have rationalized my sleep as I have rationalized my exercise. Those
who suffer from dreams may find a measure of peace and may overcome physical and moral
strain if they can so arrange their habits as to concentrate on the business at hand.

To return to earlier days and disciplines: I had three English tutors — a Mr. Gallagher, who
was Irish, a Mr. Lawrence and another Irishman, Mr. Kenny. All three were found for me by

the Jesuits in Bombay. It may seem strange that my family turned to the Jesuits for my
education in Western matters, but both in Bombay and in Poona there are big and important
Jesuit schools, and both quite near where we lived — St. Mary's in Bombay and t. Vincent's in
Poona. All the children of our considerable household — the evermultiplying descendants of
my grandfather's hangers-on, pensioners, relatives and old soldiers — went to these Jesuit
schools. The whole household knew the Jesuit fathers well, and nothing was easier than to get
their advice and help.

Incidentally, there was never a hint of their attempting to convert any of our Muslim children
to their own creed. They respected Islam, and never by open argument, by suggestion or
insinuation did they seek to weaken a Muslim's faith. This is one of the clearest recollections
of my childhood, and I have seen the same phenomenon repeated in contemporary Egypt and
Pakistan. One day a few years ago I discussed it with an eminent Jesuit, a Spaniard, and
cross-examined him about it.

"What the devil do you want to come and waste your time for?" I said. "You're a missionary,
and you've got all these opportunities to do your missionary work, but you never try to
convert a single boy! What are you here for? What do you get out of all these huge sums
you're spending on teachers and building? What's it all about?"

The Jesuit, who was an old friend of mine, smiled his sidelong smile and said: "Don't you see
what we're getting out of it?"

"No."

"You are paying us. To every Muslim and non-Christian boy we give the best education we
can. But we make them pay through the nose for it. For those who pay, our school fees are
enormous, but our poor Catholic children get their education free. So indirectly you're paying
for it, and our poor get a first-class education at your expense."

So far as I was concerned, the three teachers the Jesuits found for me were all excellent men.
The schooling which they gave me was not in the least narrow or restricted. They lifted my
mind to wide horizons, they opened my eyes to the outside world. They were wise, broad-
minded men, with a stimulating zest for knowledge and the ability to impart it — whether in
science, history or politics. Most important of all perhaps they encouraged me to read for
myself, and from the time I was ten or thereabouts, I burrowed freely into our vast library of
books in English, French, Persian and Arabic. My three tutors gave me the key to knowledge,
and for that I have always been profoundly grateful to Mr. Gallagher, Mr. Lawrence and Mr.
Kenny.

Of them I can say nothing but good. But, alas, of the man responsible for my education in
Arabic and Persian and in all matters Islamic I have nothing but bad to say. He was extremely
learned, a profound scholar, with a deep and extensive knowledge of Arabic literature and of
Islamic history, but all his learning had not widened his mind nor warmed his heart. He was a
bigoted sectarian, and in spite of his vast reading his mind was one of the darkest and

narrowest that I have ever encountered. If Islam had indeed been the thing he taught, then
surely God had sent Mohammed not to be a blessing for all mankind but a curse.

It was saddening and in a sense frightening to listen to him talk. He gave one the feeling that
God had created men solely to send them to hell and eternal damnation. However deep and
precise his knowledge — and I admit that in both these respects it was almost unique — it had
withered into bitterness and hate. In later years he returned to Tehran, where he became a
great and renowned teacher of Islamic lore and acquired the reputation of being one of the
most learned scholars in all Iran; yet to the end, I think, he must have remained the bigoted
mullah whom I knew.

Perhaps it was this early experience which for the rest of my life has given me a certain
prejudice against professional men of religion — be they mullahs or maulvis, curates, vicars
or bishops. Many of them I admit are exemplary people. The simple religious — village cures
in France, the humbler priesthood in rural Italy, humble, pious and gentle sisters in hospitals
all over the world — I have known, admired and revered. In England I have had many friends
all my life among the Quakers, and I am aware of a tranquil sense of mental and spiritual
communion with them, for our mutual respect for each other's beliefs — mine for their
Quakerism, theirs for my Islamic faith — is absolute. The vast majority of Muslim believers
all over the world are charitable and gently disposed to those who hold other faiths, and they
pray for divine forgiveness and compassion for all. There developed however in Iran and Iraq
a school of doctors of religious law whose outlook and temper — intolerance, bigotry and
spiritual aggressiveness — resembled my old teacher's, and in my travels about the world I
have met too many of their kind — Christian, Muslim and Jew — who ardently and
ostentatiously sing the praises of the Lord, and yet are eager to send to hell and eternal
damnation all except those who hold precisely their own set of opinions. For many years, I
must confess, I have sought to avoid this sort of person.

It was strange and it was out of place that a boy, whose home and upbringing were such as
mine in India, should have been submitted in adolescence to a course of this narrow and
formalist Islamic indoctrination. For my early environment was one of the widest tolerance;
there was in our home never any prejudice against Hindus or Hinduism, and a great many of
our attendants and servants - our gardeners, messengers, sepoys and guards, and many of
those whose work was connected with buying and selling, marketing and rent collection —
were Hindus.

In addition, my mother was herself a genuine mystic in the Muslim tradition (as were most of
her closest companions); and she habitually spent a great deal of time in prayer for spiritual
enlightenment and for union with God. In such a spirit there was no room for bigotry. Like
many other mystics my mother had a profound poetic understanding. I have, in something
near ecstasy, heard her read perhaps some verses by Roumi or Hafiz, with their exquisite
analogies between man's beatific vision of the Divine and the temporal beauty and colors of
flowers, the music and magic of the night, and the transient splendors of the Persian dawn.
Then I would have to go back to my gloomy treadmill and hear my tutor cursing and railing
as was his habit. Since he was a Shia of the narrowest outlook, he concentrated his most

ferocious hatred not on non-Muslims, not even on those who persecuted the Prophet, but on
the caliphs and companions of the Prophet, his daughter and two grandchildren, his son-in-
law Ali and about four or five of the closest companions of Hazrat Ali; all others were
enemies of God and of His Prophet, who had striven to encompass the Prophet's death and
after his death had brutally murdered Ali — his adopted son and natural successor — and Ali's
sons, his beloved grandchildren. This form of Shiaism attains its climax during the month of
Muharram with its lamentations and its dreadful cursings. Reaction against its hatred,
intolerance and bigotry has, I know, colored my whole life, and I have found my answer in
the simple prayer that God in His Infinite mercy will forgive the sins of all Muslims, the
slayer and the slain, and that all may be reconciled in Heaven in a final total absolution. And I
further pray that all who truly and sincerely believe in God, be they Christian, Jew, Buddhist
or Brahmin, who strive to do good and avoid evil, who are gentle and kind, will be joined in
Heaven and be granted final pardon and peace. I could wish that all other creeds would have
this same charity toward Muslims; but — with those honorable, humble exceptions whom I
have mentioned — this is not an attitude that I have encountered among Christian divines. It is
a sad and harsh thing to say, but I believe it to be true that, in general, the higher a man's
position in any of the various churches, the more severe and the less charitable is his attitude
to Muslims and to Islam.

The home in which I was brought up was, as you can see, a literary one. I have referred to my
mother's poetic sense. She was deeply versed in Persian and Arabic literature, as were several
of her ladies in waiting and closest women friends. My mother knew a great deal of poetry by
heart and she had a flair for the appropriate classical quotation — a flair which, I may say, she
never lost throughout her long life. Even when she was nearly ninety she was never at a loss
for the right and apt quotation, not merely from one of the great poets such as Hafiz and
Firdausi or Roumi but from many a minor or little-known writer.

One little anecdote may explain it. Shortly before she died a cousin of mine quoted one night
at dinner a verse of Persian poetry which is rarely heard. In order not to bother my mother or
worry her, I attributed it to Hafiz. Not at all, said my mother, that is not by Hafiz, and she
gave the name of the poem and the name of the rather obscure poet who had written it.

A consequence of this characteristic was that mealtimes at my mother's table were no
occasions of idle gossip or tittle-tattle. Our conversation was of literature, or poetry; or
perhaps one of the elderly ladies who traveled to and from Tehran a great deal would talk
about her experiences at the Court of the Shah.

A clear light shines on this phase of my boyhood. Was I happy or unhappy? I was solitary, in
the sense that I had no companions of my own age, except my beloved cousin Aga
Shamsuddin and his brother Abbas who were of the same age and the same outlook and were
the closest and dearest friends of my youth, but I had so few holidays and so little free time,
what could I have done with a host of friends? One fact stands out extremely clearly — I
worked hard, a great deal harder than most young schoolboys. By the time I was thirteen I
could read and write English, tolerable French, perfect Persian and fair Arabic; I had a sound
knowledge of Roman history as well as of Islamic history. I was well grounded in at least the

elements of science — chemistry and physics, botany, biology and zoology. Nor was my
scientific education merely theoretical; in each of our houses I had a small laboratory and I
had a set period of practical, experimental laboratory work every day.

As I have remarked, I early acquired an insatiable taste for reading. It developed rapidly from
the time that I was ten or so, and when I had temporarily, at any rate, plumbed the resources
of our library, I looked elsewhere. I wanted to buy books for myself. But there was one small
impediment: my mother allowed me no pocket money. My cousin and I organized ourselves
a brilliant way around this difficulty. Each of us put on an abba (a wide, all-enveloping cloak
which is, or used to be, a universal piece of clothing in Persia and the Arab countries). Thus
garbed we made our way to a wellknown Bombay bookshop. One of us engaged the
shopkeeper in eager conversation, and the other slid some books into the folds of his abba.
Our little device was pretty soon spotted, and the proprietor of the shop told my uncle and my
mother. Naturally our bill was promptly settled, but the family decided that we should be
taught a lesson. Nothing was said to us and we continued our naughty little game. We were at
it one day when into the shop walked my uncle.

"Take off your abbas!" he ordered sternly.

As we did so, the books which we had stolen tumbled to the floor. Our shame and our
mortification were immediate and complete, and from that day to this I don't think I have ever
so much as picked a flower in anyone else's garden without telling him.

I continued my reading — but not with stolen books. And a year or two later my reading and
indeed my whole outlook on life were profoundly and permanently transformed by a small,
wise decision; much that had hitherto been pain and hardship became pleasure and delight,
my health was immediately improved, and I am sure I was saved much trouble and
misfortune in later life. Mr. Kenny, the third and last of my European tutors, had at one time
been employed by a firm of opticians. As soon as he saw me settle down to work he realized
how terrible — and how dangerous — was the torture to which, through my congenital short
sightedness and the ignorance on these matters of those by whom I was surrounded, I was
being daily and hourly submitted.

It is strange and sad to recall that already, more than once before Mr. Kenny's arrival, I had in
fun picked up and put on a pair of glasses left lying about by one of our family or friends.

The moment I put them on I discovered the joy of a new and exciting world: a world of
human beings of definite and different shapes, a world of green trees and brightly colored
flowers, and of sharp, strong light instead of the perpetual haze and fog, the world blurred at
the edges, which was all that an extremely myopic little boy could see. But those minutes of
joy were of short duration, and were indeed forbidden, for the servants had orders to take the
glasses away from me, since my family could not believe that a child could be short-sighted
and thought that I was being self-indulgent and silly. Mr. Kenny immediately recognized my
present plight and its implications for my future. He insisted on taking me to the firm of
opticians whose employee he had been; he had my eyes tested and had me fitted with proper
glasses both for reading and for distance. My uncles strove to interfere, but Mr. Kenny was

adamant; he carried with him the prestige of the West, and he won the day. This sensible and
kindly action saved me infinite pain and worry, and gave me a new world in which to live.

What sort of world was it to which my boyish eyes were thus opened? What sort of life was it
to which I was being educated? First and most important, I was by inheritance the spiritual
head and leader of a far-flung, extremely diverse community of far from negligible
significance in the Islamic world. As soon as I was capable of doing so, I had to assume
responsibility and take decisions. I was installed on the Gadi of Imams in 1885, when I was
eight years old, and there is a photograph in existence of this ceremony, which vividly recalls
a vanished epoch. A few years later I found myself exercising my influence and authority in a
matter of considerable importance in the life of Bombay — a security matter as we should say
nowadays. In the early nineties there was an outburst of savage communal rioting in Bombay.
I issued strict orders to all my followers that they were to avoid participation in the
disturbance. The effect of my order was not merely negative; it helped to abate anger and re-
establish peace in Bombay between Muslims and Hindus. This — my first independent
political action — earned the thanks of the Governor and the Commissioner of Police in
Bombay, and boy though I still was, it did much to win for me the regard of political leaders
of all communities.

For by this time my household, followers, supporters, relatives and hangers-on made up an
important element in the population of Bombay, and (as I shall have to relate shortly) they
ultimately eated a security problem of their own. My grandfather, conscious that he was an
exile from Persia, and conscious perhaps that the greater part of his adventurous and exciting
career was over when he settled in Bombay, took no part in Indian politics. My father, during
the Governorship of Sir James Fergus son, accepted a seat on the Bombay Legislative
Council. In my maturity my political interests and ideals were to take me far afield, but the
domain to which in the late eighties and early nineties I was growing up was not without its
own political, administrative, social and economic problems and perplexities.

My grandfather, both in Poona and Bombay, had been able to lead a largely insulated life of
his own, almost medieval in its style and pattern, the like of which has long since passed
away. He brought with him from Persia the pastimes of Persian noblemen of that era, and the
splendid and feudal manner of organizing those pastimes. Field sports were a major passion
in the society in which he grew up; lavish racing stables were maintained; packs of hounds
were bred, and there was continual searching for the best hawks to be found in Iran and Iraq.
All these interests he brought with him into exile — and a great retinue of followers who were
identified with them. As soon as he settled in Bombay he bought and raced horses — Arab,
English, Australian, even Turkoman; he collected hawks and hounds anew; and the pattern of
his life was arranged round these diversions. His day began at six in the morning either with a
deer hunt or after birds, or — in the racing season — a visit to the training grounds to watch his
horses being put through their paces. By nine o'clock he would be home. He would have a
substantial breakfast, and then go to bed. In the middle of the afternoon he would get up, go
to a race meeting or more hunting until dusk. Then he would come home and spend the night
on his tasks as the leader of his community — receiving his followers, conducting his
correspondence, looking into matters of finance and the like. He would break for a fairly big

meal about nine o'clock, and then work on until five in the morning, when he would have a
light meal before beginning the day's round again. These were habits familiar to him and
many others of the ruling class of his time in Iran and Afghanistan, and he saw no reason not
to maintain them in the surroundings of his later life.

I may say, incidentally, that my grandfather had a run of success as an owner on the Indian
turf, in the fifties, sixties and seventies of the last century, very similar to my own in England
and France from the twenties to the fifties of this century.

My father, during his brief reign, continued much the same manner of living, widening and
increasing the stud and organizing his hawks and his hounds in a fashion and on a scale that
evoked the admiration of everyone who understood these matters, travelers from Europe, for
example, and members of the British ruling class who held high official positions in India. It
was to fall to me to adapt and modify this outlook and way of life to changing times.

It was inevitable that during my minority the British Raj and its representatives in Bombay
should take a close interest in my welfare and my upbringing. My boyhood coincided with
what was no doubt the heyday of British paternalism in India. The Raj seemed effortlessly
secure and unshakable; its representatives and officials — most of whom were enlightened
and liberal men whose minds were in tune with the temper of the high Victorian age in which
they had matured — were serenely self-confident. Their actions and their decisions found their
source in a mental and spiritual strength which their successors were to lose. The mutiny was
a far-off memory, and indeed its effect had seemed to be almost totally confined to Northern
India. Nationalism was only just beginning to stir in the womb of time. Congress existed,
having been brought into being in the early eighties by the energy and effort of a British
member of the Indian Civil Service, a Mr. Hume. A similar Muslim organization was
established a little later, and my eldest half-brother was one of its founders. But few would
have believed that these were the first portents of all the stress and upheaval of later years.

Relations between British and Indians were in general easy, amiable and without strain. The
then Governor of Bombay, Lord Reay, was a Gladstonian Liberal, high principled,
benevolent and affable, and sustained in his duty by a charming and talented wife. And the
Bombay Army Commander was no other than H.R.H. the Duke of Connaught, Queen
Victoria's youngest son, who made soldiering his career, as befitted a godson and namesake
of Arthur, first Duke of Wellington. From the first it was my particular good fortune that the
Duke and Duchess of Connaught took in me a close, affectionate and continuing interest.

They would come to tea at our house several times a year, and I, as a child, was more
frequently asked to their home and there agreeably spoiled and given perhaps more toffee and
chocolate than was altogether good for me. These visits back and forth were red-letter days
for me. At Poona and at Mahabaleshwar the Duke was a very near neighbour; every day, and
often several times a day, we would encounter him out riding, and we would stop and the
Duke would have a talk with me. Thus in a fashion I was brought up close to the British
Royal Family and in later years, when I met Queen Victoria, she said at once, I remember,
that she had heard all about me and my home from her son.

Similar frequent and informal visits were exchanged between my family and the Governor;
and as a boy in the Reays' time I was often taken to tea at Government House. There was in
these relationships at this period no sense of tension, no standoffishness and no
condescension; they were cordial and confident — very different relationships from those that
developed in later years. The narrow, intolerant "imperialistic" outlook associated with
Kipling's name, and with some of his more unfortunate observations (of the order of "East is
East and West is West and never the twain shall meet," for example), had not then emerged.
Had social life and relations between British and Indians continued to be as they were in the
eighties, I greatly doubt whether political bitterness would have developed to the extent it did,
and possibly something far less total than the severance of the Republic of India from the
Imperial connection would have been feasible.

Queen Victoria herself was of course sharply conscious of the responsibilities, not only
political but personal and social, which she had assumed with the splendid title of Empress of
India. She insisted that Indian Princes and Indian gentlefolk should receive the respect and
the dignified status accorded in those days to European princes and gentlefolk. The Duke of
Connaught faithfully practiced her principles during his time in India. The Viceroy and
Vicereine, Lord and Lady Dufferin, were, like Lord and Lady Reay, people of kind and
gentle sensibility, warm hearts and graceful manners. A tone thus set could not be ignored,
and Indo-British relationships in general were in this pattern. There was agreeable and
unstrained social mixing at receptions, on the racecourse, or on the polo ground.

There is an outstanding example that I recall: Sir Jamsetjee Jeejeebhoy, a notable figure in the
Parsee community in Bombay, gave a reception for the Viceroy and Vicereine, Lord and
Lady Dufferin, for the Governor of Bombay and his wife, Lord and Lady Reay, and for the
Duke and Duchess of Connaught. All the leading representatives of all the communities in
Bombay were present, and just as would have happened in England or any other country, Sir
Jeejeebhoy, as host, offered his arm to Lady Dufferin and went into the supper room, and the
Viceroy followed with his hostess, Lady Jeejeebhoy, and everyone else went after in turn. A
few years later -and thereafter, until the end of the Indian Empire — it would have been
inconceivable that the Viceroy, a Prince of the British Royal House and the Governor of the
great province of British India, would have gone to a reception at the house of a Parsee
gentleman, however distinguished, and allowed him to lead the Vicereine in first and then
have followed with his hostess. Rigid protocol replaced easy good manners — to the grave
detriment not only of social life but of something, in the end, much more important. But in
those happy days Empire did not mean "imperialism" — social vulgarity, and worse, social
aggressiveness and highhandedness. It is true that the clubs were closed to Indians but that
fact had none of the neurotic significance which it took on subsequently; nobody minded
Europeans having a small enclave of their own, and social relations outside were on a basis of
free equality.

A curious fact not without a tinge of irony is that in the eighties many Indian ladies on their
own initiative were coming out of purdah and were receiving Europeans in their homes with
cordial hospitality. It was the result of a spontaneous feeling among Indian ladies that they
could not keep back in the general atmosphere of good will and the removal of restraint. Had

this atmosphere been maintained it is possible that, in Western India at any rate, purdah
would have broken down gradually among the upper classes decades before it did.

This was a happy period whose temper and outlook I have sought to evoke in some detail, for
in the harsh and strained years which followed, it was forgotten. The change, it seems to me,
set in sharply in 1890. The Duke of Connaught went home and his great influence for good in
all social matters was lost. He was followed as Army Commander by General Sir George
Greaves (reputedly the original of General Bangs in Kipling's "A Code of Morals"). * Lord
Reay too retired and was succeeded by Lord Harris, a famous and enthusiastic cricketer, but a
Conservative of the rising new imperialist school of thought. Our relations with Government
House, though perfectly friendly, became more formal and less familiar. The whole tone of
relationships stiffened. No longer were the easy, frequent receptions and entertainments
attended by people of all communities. At Government House there were merely a few
rigidly formal garden parties at which social mingling began to be discouraged. Less and less
did Europeans invite Indians to their houses, and soon it became rare for the races to meet
around a luncheon or dinner table. Even on occasions where rigid separation was obviously
impossible, as at race meetings, color differences began to show themselves. Sets were
formed, not on the natural basis of personal sympathy and antipathy, but on the artificial and
unwholesome basis of race and color. This is an outlook against which I, who had spent my
most impressionable years in a totally different atmosphere, was to react strongly.

* Years later, long after he had retired, I encountered General Greaves on the DoverCalais
steamer. He was alone, and I put the conventional question that courtesy prompted: "Is Lady
Greaves going with you to Paris?" To which the warrior replied, "I don't take a ham sandwich
when I go to a banquet."

In Bombay in the nineties perhaps the first sufferers were the Parsees. Energetic, efficient,
socially as well as commercially gifted and adapted, they played an important role in easing
and smoothing relations between British and Indians. They now suffered the fate of the go-
between who is no longer wanted. They were looked down on by both sides, and were more
and more isolated to their own company and that of a few advanced Hindu and Muslim
families. Europeans would no longer associate with them because they were Asiatics; Hindus
and Muslims considered that they had thrown in their lot with the Europeans and then had
been cast aside. It was a disagreeable and unjust plight.

An even unhappier change — and much more far-reaching in its effects — came over the
official British view of nascent political feeling. Congress, benevolently encouraged in its
beginnings in the eighties and regarded (probably rightly) as a sign of maturity in one or more
members of the great Imperial family, was now thought to be a hostile political organization
whose ultimate aim could only be to weaken and destroy the British connection. The
alienation of the British ruling classes (or at any rate, the greater number of those they sent to
India) from India's educated classes, who were growing in numbers and capacity, was both
mental and spiritual. There was frigidity where there had been warmth; and in this process
there were sown almost all the seeds of future bitterness.

What happened to the Englishman has been to me all my life a source of wonder and
astonishment. Suddenly it seemed that he felt his prestige as a member of an imperial,
governing race would be lost if he accepted those of a different color as fundamentally his
equals. The color bar was no longer thought of as a physical difference, but far more
dangerously — in the end disastrously — as an intellectual and spiritual difference. As long as
Indians who adopted and imitated the European way of life were few, it was possible for a
servant and upholder of the Raj to feel that there was little danger that his unique position
would be undermined by familiarity and overthrown by numbers. But now racialism — on
both sides -marched on with giant's strides. It was soon not merely a matter of the
relationship between British rulers and the Indian ruled. The pernicious theory spread that all
Asiatics were a second-class race and "white men" possessed some intrinsic and
unchallengeable superiority.

The infection had, I will admit, its ridiculous aspects. The Turkish Consul General in
Bombay happened — like many of the ruling and official classes in Ottoman Turkey — to be a
Bosnian, a Slav, of one hundred per cent European stock, but because he was a Muslim
ignorant prejudice set him down as an "Asiatic"! Some English acquaintances took him into
one of their clubs. Other members made such a row about it that the Consul General said
flatly that, as a Muslim and the representative of a semi-Asiatic Empire, he had been treated
with discourtesy and contempt on racial grounds, and while he would do his duties as Consul
General, his contacts with the British in Bombay would henceforth be severely official and he
would have no personal relations with them. The Persian Consul shared his experience and
his sentiments. The Japanese, who were emerging from their long seclusion from outside
contact, moved cannily; they established their own commercial undertakings first, so that
when their Consul came he found Japanese clubs and social gatherings already organized and
did not feel isolated or dependent on the good graces of the Anglo-Indian community — in the
oldfashioned sense of that word, Anglo-Indian.

A root cause of the new attitude was fear and lack of inner selfconfidence. A contributory
factor was the presence, in increasing numbers, of British wives, with no knowledge of or
interest in the customs and outlook of Indians. Fear afflicted people in trade and commerce
just as much as-perhaps even more than — officials. The rift deepened and widened as time
went on. The color bar had to be kept rigid and absolute, or (so fear nagged at those in its
grip) some mysterious process of contamination would set in, and their faith in their own
superiority and in their right — their moral, intellectual and biological right — to rule others
would be sapped.

It was a neurotic attitude, very different from that of earlier times when men like Sir John
Malcolm, Sir Mountstuart Elphinstone and, later, Lord Ripon and Lord Reay, took it
sublimely for granted that England's duty — once she had brought peace, unity and prosperity
to India and had taught its peoples the secrets of liberal government — would be in the
fullness of time to depart. There was no talk then of Dominion status, but the precedents of
Canada and of the rapidly growing colonies of Australia and New Zealand were clear to see.
But by the nineties all ideas of this sort had been thrown overboard as inimical to the security
of the Raj, disloyal and seditious.

I recall a breakfast party which I gave in Bombay for some senior British officials. Another
guest was a cousin of mine — a devoted and loyal subject of the Queen and profoundly pro-
British. But he was a student of history. He discoursed on the fact that an Asiatic race, the
Arabs, had ruled Spain for five hundred years and, after their departure, had left indelible and
splendid marks of their civilization all over southern Spain; and on the fact that another
Asiatic race, the Turks, had established a major empire in the Balkans and around the Eastern
Mediterranean and were still ruling it after several centuries. My British guests took this as an
affront.

"We will not have such comparisons made," they said. "Our rule is permanent, not something
that lasts a few centuries and then disappears. Even to think as you think is disloyal." Ideas
hke these seem strange indeed now in the 1950's, when we have seen British rule in India
dissolve and pass away like early morning mist before strong sunlight. But this was the
atmosphere in which my later boyhood was spent, with its unhappy, brooding awareness of
deepening difference and of growing misunderstanding and hostility.

I Visit the Western World

WITH APPROACHING MANHOOD my life shaped itself into new channels of its own.
More and more the duties and decisions implicit in my inherited position devolved on me. I
was never indeed subject to any Regency, in the accepted sense, and as my capacity to make
decisions increased, so my mother and my uncles encouraged me to accept responsibility. My
mother, who had insisted on the educational discipline of my early boyhood, was as shrewd
and watchful as she was loving. She and I remained, throughout her long life, in the closest,
most affectionate intimacy. Every night in those years I would go to her apartments and join
with her in prayer — that prayer for unity, for companionship on high, which is the core of
Muslim faith. This shared experience gave us both, I think, the strength to bear our load of
fatigue and anxiety, mental and spiritual, which was by no means light during these difficult
years. But my mother's religion was resolutely practical as well; she saw no virtue in faith
without works, and from the outset of my public career I accepted and sought to practice the
same standards.

My education continued until I was eighteen. Mr. Kenny, my English tutor, once more
exerted his beneficent influence and persuaded my mentors that I could give up my hated
calligraphy. My mind was opening rapidly to new horizons; in my reading I began to range
widely, in English and French as well as in Persian and Arabic; I discovered the intellectual
delight — the precision and clarity — of Mill's system of logic. I read voraciously in history
and biography, and with my cousin Shamsuddin I became an insatiable reader of novels — a
diversion, I may say, whose pleasures have never faded.

On my father's death his racing stables, of course, became my property; and although I was a
minor my horses raced under my name year after year, and long before I was out of my teens
His Highness the Aga Khan's horses were well known — and not without their successes — on

the turf of Western India. There my inherited and environmental influences made themselves
obvious from the first. All my family — my mother not excluded — were keen followers of
racing form, English as well as Indian. We were knowledgeable about the English turf;
Ormone's glorious triumphs, for example, meant almost as much to us as they did to his
backers on English racecourses. I well remember that when I was quite small the victor in
any pony races between myself and my cousins was hailed for the rest of the day as "Fred
Archer." Archer's death in tragic circumstances plunged us all in gloom, almost as if a close
friend had committed suicide.

My successes as an owner were not insignificant. I may claim that for a time I — and my
cousin Aga Shamsuddin, who was part owner with me of a number of excellent horses —
dominated the turf in Western India. Four times in succession I won the Nizam's Gold Cup —
the most important and valuable race in Western India. With a horse called Yildiz I won the
Governor's Cup in Poona during these years, and again somewhat later.

I took up hunting, not of course fox hunting as in England, but jackal hunting both in Poona
and Bombay. It happens that I have never hunted the fox in England, but frankly I know no
more exhilarating sport than jackal hunting over the rice fields in Bombay on an early, cold
winter morning when the scent is good and the hounds get a good long run after the wily
jackal.

I was a pioneer of another sport in India — hockey, which nowadays is one of the main
national games of both India and Pakistan. I began to play it with my cousin and other
companions of my own age in the early nineties. I encouraged interest in the game; I gave the
cups; I got the Indian Army to play. Teams were built up among the various communities in
Bombay, and competitions extended steadily all over India. Hockey and cricket developed at
much the same time in India, cricket fostered and encouraged by the then Governor of
Bombay, Lord Harris; young Indians who had been to England for some part of their
education continued the game when they came home, and it exerted an appeal which it has
never lost and which has extended to wider and wider circles in India and Pakistan, both of
which now produce teams of Test Match caliber and quality.

In my late teens I took up boxing, and made a serious study and use of Eugene Sandow's
System of Physical Culture. All my life I have been a keen advocate and practitioner of
simple, forthright principles of physical fitness. I have always been a believer in steady
exercise. I was a great walker, I took up golf after I was fifty, and one of the catchphrases
which journalists used about me was that my two great ambitions were "to win the Derby and
the Open Golf Championship." Well, I have won the Derby — and more than once; the other
ambition (if it was ever more than a journalist's invention!) is unfulfilled, but my handicap for
years was twelve. I have never believed, as many Englishmen do, in cramming a great deal of
exercise into a few hours over the week end, and taking little or none during the rest of the
week; a certain amount of steady exercise every day has been my habit — exercise to be fitted
into the program of a busy day.

A memorable experience of my later boyhood was meeting Mark Twain. I spent a whole
afternoon in his company and finished by having dinner with him at Watson's Hotel in
Bombay, where he was staying. He had a pleasant, utterly unassuming charm and a
friendliness of manner which captivated the serious-minded lad that I was.

He had amassed a considerable fortune, I believe, and had lost it in bad speculation. Now in
old age he had to begin to earn his living all over again; therefore he was traveling around the
world and interviewing people on the way. * He showed absolutely no sign of bitter ness or
resentment against his misfortune. He seemed to me dear, gentle and saintly, sad and
immensely modest for so great and famous a genius.

* Incidentally, he refers to our encounter in his subsequent book, Following the Equator.

More and more as my teens advanced, my days were busy. I was keenly aware that I
possessed a dual responsibility, perhaps a dual opportunity: first, in India, as the leader of an
influential group within the wide Muslim community at an epoch when political aspirations
were stirring and second, as the head of a far-ranging international community, a spiritual
chief whose authority extended, in a tenuous yet sensitive network, into the heart of many
lands and many peoples. I could never be solely an Indian nationalist, although from 1892,
under the influence of wise and good men such as Sir Pherozeshah Mehta and Mr. Badruddin
Tyebjee, I took the standpoint of moderate Indian nationalism of that time. My unique task, in
a world in which the first hints and rumbles of impending conflict were to be discerned, was
surely international. My followers were to be found in Burma and Southeast Asia, in greater
and greater numbers along the East African seaboard from Mombasa to East London and
inland in South Africa; in Syria, Persia, Afghanistan, in Chinese Turkestan, in Russian
territories in the heart of Central Asia, and the Mesopotamian provinces of Turkey which
were later to be known as Iraq. My home inevitably was a sounding board of ideas and
beliefs, hopes, fears and aspirations from all over the Islamic world. My primary advice,
indeed my mandate, to my followers who were citizens of many countries had to be then —
and always has been — that the loyalty which they owe to my house and person is a spiritual
and nontemporal loyalty, that their temporal allegiance is fully engaged to the State of which
they are citizens, and that it is an absolute part of their duty to be good citizens. All my work,
in politics and diplomacy all my life, is comprehensible in terms of this dual responsibility
with which from my earliest days I have been charged.

At the end of 1895 and the beginning of 1896 I was on the verge of manhood. The reins of
my life's task were now fully in my hands. My tutors took their farewell and bowed their way
out of my life.

I, like many youths of my age in the East, thought of marriage; and naturally enough I looked
around me in the small, confined family circle in which I had grown up. One of my earliest
playmates in my childhood had been my cousin, Shahzadi Begum, whose father, Aga
Jungishah, was my uncle and one of my early mentors and exemplars. In our adolescence, as
was usual in our time and society, we saw little or nothing of each other, but as I approached
manhood I became sharply aware of my cousin's beauty and charm, and I fell in love with

her. It has been alleged, unkindly and unjustly, that my first marriage was a "state marriage,"
arranged for my cousin and myself by our parents for dynastic reasons. Nothing could be
further from the truth. I was a youth in love, groping toward that experience, that mingling of
joy and pain, which turns a boy into a man. Mine and mine only was the initiative in the
matter of marriage. I told my mother of my feelings and begged her to approach my uncle
and his wife on my behalf, and ask their permission for me to marry Shahzadi. The overtures
were made, my formal proposal was accepted. We were to be married within the year.
Meanwhile my uncle and aunt, with their daughter and her brother, Shah Abbas, set forth on
a pilgrimage to Mecca. The party, having made the Haj, set out for home, and on their way
stayed for a time, as was customary, in Jeddah, the port on the Red Sea through which the
vast majority of pilgrims to Mecca come and go. My uncle and cousin were assassinated in
brutal and violent circumstances; and my aunt and her daughter were in the house when the
murders were committed. Police investigation in the Western sense did not exist in Jeddah in
those days; communications were scanty and unreliable. The Bombay police closely
questioned returning Indian pilgrims and though much about the affray was, and has always
remained, obscure, and although the assailants were said either to have immediately poisoned
themselves or to have been beaten to death by the horror-struck attendants and bystanders, it
is at least clear that my uncle and his son were the victims of dastardly religious fanaticism.

This ghastly tragedy had a profound effect on me, both physically and emotionally. All
through that summer I was seriously ill, a prey to a succession of fevers, with painful
rheumatic symptoms. In October, when the great heat of the summer was over and the
monsoon rains had passed, I made my first journey to Northern India. Hitherto my traveling
outside Western and Southern India, except for visits to Baghdad and to Bushire and Muscat,
had been extremely restricted. I now, however, acquired a taste for travel which I have
certainly never abandoned. On this first trip I visited the great shrines and centers of Muslim
India at Agra, Delhi and Lahore: that magnificent group of monuments to Islamic civilization
and culture — the Taj Mahal, the Red Fort in Delhi, and the Friday Mosque, and those
exquisite gems, the Pearl Mosques at Delhi and Agra. My way led me, too, to the Anglo-
Muslim College (as it then was) at Aligarh, where I met Sir Syed Ahmed and Nawab
Mohsen-ul-Molk. This was the origin of what was for many years one of the crucial concerns
of my life — my interest in the extension and improvement of Muslim higher education, and
specially the college and university at Aligarh.

I took up its cause then with a youthful fervor which I have never regretted. Aligarh in the
1890's was an admirable institution, but it was hampered and restricted by lack of funds and
lack of facilities. Did I realize then, young as I was, that it had in it to become a great
powerhouse of Muslim thought and culture and learning, in full accord with Islamic tradition
and teaching, yet adapted to the outlook and the techniques of our present age? No one could
have foretold all that did in fact happen; but I do know that I was on fire to see Aligarh's
scope widened and its usefulness extended, and to find the money for it, by any short-cut
means if necessary. Why not, said I in my youthful rashness, go to some great American
philanthropist — Mr. Rockefeller or Mr. Carnegie — and ask for a substantial grant?

My new friends were older and sager. It was our responsibility, they said, within our own
sixty or seventy million-strong Muslim community in India; if we sought for outside help,
even from the richest and most philanthropically inclined of American multimillionaires, we
should be dishonored for all time. They were right, of course. For this was an age which had
not experienced two world wars and had never heard of Point Four. But that decision, and my
own zeal in the cause which I had taken up, led (as such decisions are apt to lead) to years of
arduous and all-demanding toil, the journeyings, the speechmaking, the sitting on
committees, the fight against apathy and the long, long discussions with those in high places,
which are the lot of those who commit themselves to such an endeavor.

Often in civilized history a university has supplied the springboard for a nation's intellectual
and spiritual renascence. In our time it has been said that the American Robert Missionary
College in Constantinople led to the re-emergence of Bulgaria as an independent, sovereign
nation. Who can assess the effect on Arab nationalism of the existence of the American
University of Beirut? Aligarh is no exception to this rule. But we may claim with pride that
Aligarh was the product of our own efforts and of no outside benevolence; and surely it may
also be claimed that the independent, sovereign nation of Pakistan was bom in the Muslim
University of Aligarh.

Reinvigorated and restored to health by my travels I went home at the end of the year to our
wedding ceremonies and celebrations. It was a double wedding. For at the same time
Shahzadi's brother, my trusted friend Aga Shamsuddin, was married to another of our
cousins. Our nuptials were celebrated with all the appropriate ritual and rejoicing; and then
sorrow beset myself and my bride.

It is a long-ago story of young unhappiness, and it can be briefly and sadly told. We were
both ignorant and innocent; our ignorance and innocence set a gulf between us which
knowledge, wisely and salutarily applied, could have bridged. We were too shy to acquire
that knowledge, too innocent even to know how to set about getting it. Tenderness and
diffused affection — and my wife had all that I could give — were no use for our forlorn
plight. Ours was no less a tragedy because, under the iron conventions of the time, it was both
commonplace and concealed. Mine, I thought, was the blame for the grief and
misunderstanding that embroiled us; and this deepened my affection for my wife; but for her,
baffled and bewildered as she was, the affection I offered was no substitute nor atonement.
Inevitably we drifted apart, she to a private purgatory of resentment and reproach, and I to the
activities and interests of the outside world.

For me relief was legitimately much easier, for my official and political life rapidly became
full and vigorous, and there was a great deal of sheer hard work to be done. If my marriage
was a sour sham, my duties and responsibilities were real and earnest in this year of 1897.

During the previous year there had been sinister rumors that an epidemic of bubonic plague
was sedulously and remorselessly spreading westward across Asia. There had been a bad
outbreak in Hong Kong; sporadically it appeared in towns and cities farther and farther west.
When in the late summer of 1897 it hit Bombay there was a natural and general tendency to

discredit its seriousness; but within a brief time we were all compelled to face the fact that it
was indeed an epidemic of disastrous proportions. Understanding of the ecology of plague
was still extremely incomplete in the nineties. The medical authorities in Bombay were
overwhelmed by the magnitude, and (as it seemed) the complexity, of the catastrophe that
had descended on the city. Their reactions were cautious and conservative. Cure they had
none, and the only preventative that they could offer was along lines of timid general
hygiene, vaguely admirable but unsuited to the precise problem with which they had to deal.
Open up, they said; let fresh air and light into the little huts, the hovels and the shanties in
which hundreds of thousands of the industrial and agricultural proletariat in Bombay
Presidency lived; and when you have let in fresh air, sprinkle as much strong and strong-
smelling disinfectant as you can. These precautions were not only ineffective; they ran
directly counter to deep-rooted habits in the Indian masses. Had they obviously worked, they
might have been forgiven, but as they obviously did not, and the death roll mounted day by
day, it was inevitable that there was a growing feeling of resentment.

It was a grim period. The plague had its ugly, traditional effect on public morals. Respect for
law and order slipped ominously. There were outbreaks of looting and violence. Drunkenness
and immorality increased; and there was a great deal of bitter feeling against the Government
for the haphazard and inefficient way in which it was tackling the crisis. The climax was
reached with the assassination (on his way home from a Government House function) of one
of the senior British officials responsible for such preventative measures as had been
undertaken.

Now it happened that the Government of Bombay had at its disposal a brilliant scientist and
research worker, Professor Haffkinez, a Russian Jew, who had come to work on problems
connected with cholera; he had induced the authorities to tackle cholera by mass inoculation
and had had in this sphere considerable success. He was a determined and energetic man. He
was convinced that inoculation offered a method of combating bubonic plague. He pressed
his views on official quarters in Bombay — without a great deal of success. Controversy
seethed around him, but he had little chance to put his views into practice. Meanwhile people
were dying like flies — among them many of my own followers.

I knew that something must be done, and I knew that I must take the initiative. I was not, as I
have already recounted, entirely without scientific knowledge; I knew something of Pasteur's
work in France. I was convinced that the Surgeon General's Department was working along
the wrong lines. I by-passed it and addressed myself directly to Professor Haffkine. He and I
formed an immediate alliance and a friendship that was not restricted solely to the grim
business that confronted us. This, by now, was urgent enough. I could at least and at once
give him facilities for his research and laboratory work. I put freely at his disposal one of my
biggest houses, a vast, rambling palace not far from Aga Hall (it is now a part of St. Mary's
College, Mazagaon); here he established himself, and here he remained about two years until
the Government of India, convinced of the success of his methods, took over the whole
research project and put it on a proper, adequate and official footing.

Meanwhile I had to act swiftly and drastically. The impact of the plague among my own
people was alarming. It was in my power to set an example. I had myself publicly inoculated,
and I took care to see that the news of what I had done was spread as far as possible and as
quickly as possible.

My followers could see for themselves that I, their Imam, had in full view of many witnesses
submitted myself to this mysterious and dreaded process; hence there was no danger in
following my example. The immunity, of which my continued health and my activities were
obvious evidence, impressed itself on their consciousness and conquered their fear.

I was twenty years old. I ranged myself (with Haffkine, of course) against orthodox medical
opinion of the time — among Europeans no less than among Asiatics. And if the doctors were
opposed to the idea of inoculation, what of the views of ordinary people, in my own
household and entourage, in the public at large? Ordinary people were extremely frightened.
Looking back across more than half a century, may I not be justified in feeling that the young
man that I was showed a certain amount of courage and resolution?

At any rate it worked. Among my own followers the news circulated swiftly, as I had
intended it to do, that their Imam had been inoculated and that they were to follow my
example. Deliberately I put my leadership to the test. It survived and vindicated itself in a
new and perhaps dramatic fashion. My followers allowed themselves to be inoculated, not in
a few isolated instances, but as a group. Within a short time statistics were firmly on my side;
the death rate from plague was demonstrably far, far lower among Ismailis than in any other
section of the community; the number of new cases, caused by contamination, was sharply
reduced; and finally the incidence of recovery was far higher.

A man's first battle in life is always important. Mine had taught me much, about myself and
about other people. I had fought official apathy and conservatism, fear and ignorance — my
past foretold my future, for they were foes that were to confront me again and again
throughout my life.

By the time the crisis was passed I may have seemed solemn beyond my years, but I
possessed an inner self-confidence and strength that temporary and transient twists of fortune
henceforth could not easily shake. A by-product of the influence and the authority which I
had exerted was that others than my own Ismaili followers looked to me for leadership. The
year 1897 was Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee. It was natural enough that I should go to
Simla to present to the Viceroy, Lord Elgin, an address of loyalty and congratulations to Her
Majesty as hereditary Imam of my own Ismaili sect; but, in fact, I went in a triple capacity. I
presented three addresses, one from my own community, another as leader and representative
of the Muslims of Western India, and a third on behalf of a representative assemblage of the
citizens of Bombay and Poona.

Lord Elgin received me graciously and hospitably. I was invited to luncheon by Lield
Marshal Sir George White, then Commander in Chief in India. The Lield Marshal's nickname
was Sir George the Dragon Killer, and no man could have better looked the part than this
gauntly handsome, old warrior — immensely tall, strong and stern of visage. Sitting there

beside him at luncheon I had a sudden vision of the old man kilted, claymore in hand, fiercely
challenging all comers, human and animal, a dragon or two, a squadron of cavalry or a herd
of rhinoceros. There was still, you see, a vein of romanticism in the young man who had with
gravity and propriety presented his three official addresses to His Excellency, the Viceroy.

I returned to Bombay to prepare for my biggest and most important journey hitherto.

I set out to discover the Europe of which I had read and heard so much, which beckoned with
so insistent and imperious an attraction.

In our distracted and war-battered epoch there is a deep, nostalgic sadness in recalling the
splendors and the security-both seemingly unshakable — which Western European
civilization had attained in the last decade of the nineteenth century. As a young man I saw
that old world at its zenith. I have lived to watch all the vicissitudes of its strange and swift
decline. When I first set foot on the soil of Europe, just half a century had elapsed since the
convulsions of 1848. Peace, prosperity and progress seemed universal and alien veloping.

True enough the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-1871 had flashed grim warnings for those
prescient enough to see them, but to many that conflict seemed a temporary and regrettable
divagation from the general and steady trend toward human betterment. Britain, whose world
hegemony, founded on absolute naval supremacy, seemed unchallengeable, was powerful
and prosperous as never before under the rule of her august Queen; not since 1815 had she
been compelled to intervene in any major Continental conflict, and generations of her
statesmen and diplomats were trained in the essential art and duty of retaining the balance of
power in Europe. In spite of a few minatory signs of military, social and economic danger or
discontent, the dominant notes in the Europe of 1898 were those of serenity and affluence.

Thither I set out from Bombay early in February. I was a little more than twenty years of age.
Two members of my household accompanied me as personal attendants. We traveled to
Marseilles in a brand-new liner of the Messageries Maritime fleet. In passing I may say that -
- at any rate so far as the routes to India, Africa and the Far East are concerned — the crack
ships of the late nineties were really much better to travel in than their alleged "luxury"
twentieth-century successors. Their cabins were more spacious and comfortable and all their
amenities were on a far more civilized scale. A great deal of show and chromium plate does
not, to my mind, compensate for a decrease in solid comfort.

From Marseilles I went straight to Nice. It was the height of the Riviera winter season; in
those days the south of France had no summer season. Every hotel in every resort along the
Cote d'Azur was packed, and I had the greatest difficulty in finding accommodation. After
all, a considerable proportion of the royalty, nobility and gentry of Europe was concentrated
along this strip of coast line. Queen Victoria was at Cimiez; and at length I found myself a
room in the hotel in which the Queen was staying. Of pretty small account I was in the vast,
glittering, aristocratic and opulent company gathered for the Riviera season: the Emperor
Franz Joseph at Cap Martin, a score or so of Russian grand dukes and Austrian archdukes in
their villas and palaces, half the English peerage with a generous sprinkling of millionaires
from industry and finance; and most of the Almanach de Gotha from Germany, the Austro-

Hungarian Empire, the Balkan countries lately "emancipated" from Ottoman rule, and Czarist
Russia. The young man from Bombay was dazzled and awed.

I knew nobody. I think the only people, other than my own personal attendants, to whom I
spoke half a dozen words were the hotel staff and the officials at the Casino in Monte Carlo.
But I enjoyed myself enormously — looking and listening. I went out for long drives from
Cimiez along the coast to Monte Carlo and Menton. I stared at the shop windows — and what
shop windows, those of jewelers especially! After more than fifty years I have a vivid
recollection of the solid wealth on display for the eyes of the wealthiest people in Europe,
whether they were financiers or landowners from England or Moscow millowners. There
were none of your present-day bits and pieces of gold and silver and worthless stones made
up into trumpery trinkets; no - this was real jewelry, great sparkling diamonds, pearls, rubies,
emeralds and sapphires winking and gleaming in the bright winter sun.

At Cannes, at Nice, at Monte Carlo the streets were packed in the fashionable hours with the
carriages of the great and the wealthy, handsome landaus and victorias with fine, high-
stepping horses and coachmen and footmen in dashing liveries. I remember that there were
one or two automobiles on show as curiosities in front of the Hotel de Paris at Monte Carlo.
How elegant was the disdain with which the fashionable crowd regarded these noisy, smelly
toys! Few then had the foresight to see in them the predecessors not only of today's Concours
d'Elegance but of the great, silver-winged, jetpropelled aircraft which shoot across the sky.

Though prosperity was to some extent diffused through all the towns and villages along the
Cote d'Azur and though there was no hunger and there were no rags, and the poorest had at
least one solid meat meal a day, it cannot be said that living was cheap on the Riviera in the
nineties. For accommodations and service at the best hotel for myself and two valets, my
daily bill — with no extravagance and no entertainment of any kind — was about two hundred
gold francs. That translated into present-day terms would be nearly forty thousand francs a
day. But were it possible to live at the same rate and on the same scale as I did on that first
trip of mine, I daresay my bill -in contemporary terms — would work out at about six
thousand to seven thousand francs a day. So in relation to the gold standard of the nineties,
the cost of living — my sort of living in those days — was five or six times as high as it is
now.

Since I was staying in the same hotel as Queen Victoria, I had frequent opportunities of
watching her go out to and return from her daily drives in her landau. She was helped in and
out of her carriage by Indian servants from her personal household. I and my own attendants
reached the same, rather strange conclusion, and, I may say, it was reinforced later when I
saw her servants at closer quarters at Windsor: they were distinctly second-class servants, of
the kind that you find around hotels and restaurants, the kind that the newly arrived or
transient European is apt to acquire in the first hotel in which he stays — very different from
and very inferior to the admirable, trustworthy and very high-grade men whom, throughout
the years of British rule in India, one would encounter at Viceregal Lodge or at Government
House in any of the provinces. It seemed highly odd, and frankly it still does. Was the
explanation possibly that the pay offered was not good enough to attract the first-rate man

overseas? Of course after Queen Victoria's death there was a change; successive King-
Emperors had no Indian menial servants, but there were several posts of honor in the Royal
Household for Indian aides-de-camp and orderly officers.

I had ten memorable days on the Riviera, and then off I set for Paris. I have praised the
comfort of the liners of those days, but no, not the sleeping cars — anyone who knows the
modern wagon-lits or Pullman car, and the glories perhaps of the Blue Train, can have no
idea of the cramped, primitive, alleged sleeping car of the nineties and the early 1900's.
However, it took me to Paris. I repeat: I was twenty years old, I had steeped myself in French
literature and French history of the whole nineteenth century and earlier. I knew the names of
the streets, I knew the way Parisians lived, acted and thought. Mine in dreams and in reading
was the Paris of the two Napoleons, the Paris of Balzac and of Barres, of the boulevards and
the barricades. Where did I stay but at the famous Hotel Bristol? What did I do on my first
morning in Paris but pay my call at the British Embassy?

I have hinted that I was a solemn young man, very serious about my cultural and scientific
interests. In the absence of the Ambassador, the Minister gave me the introductions that I
wanted and supplemented those that I had brought with me. To the Carnavalet Museum I
went, to the Fouvre, to the Bibliotheque Nationale. There I was shown around by the curator
of Oriental books and manuscripts, accompanied by M. Solomon Reinach, an eminent
archaeologist. He was astonished, he said, that a young man who spoke English and French
so fluently could read with case ancient classical Persian and Arabic manuscripts. I was
astonished in my turn (though I did not say so) that so distinguished a savant should forget
that Persian and Arabic were, after all, my native languages, the languages which my
forebears had spoken for hundreds of years.

My friend Professor Haffkine in Bombay had given me a letter of introduction to Dr. Roux of
the Pasteur Institute. In the evenings I sallied forth to the theater and the opera. It was not the
season in Paris, and therefore there was not the display and the elegance that I had seen at the
Riviera. Still I saw Madam Bartet at the Comedie Fran§aise and thought her the most
enchanting and accomplished actress I had ever seen — and now with a lifetime in between,
that is a verdict which I see no reason to alter. I saw Sarah Bernhardt, but frankly she
disappointed me. I never thought she came up to Bartet. I went several times to the opera and
except for Faust, every opera that I saw was by Meyerbeer. Who ever hears an opera by
Meyerbeer nowadays? His reputation suddenly dropped like a plummet, and yet I think he
has been unfairly treated, with a fierce contempt which he does not merit. I know that he is no
Wagner; I know that he cannot compare with the best of Mozart or Verdi, but I have a
hankering belief that a Meyerbeer revival might prove quite a success.

Not all my time in Paris was spent on culture. I did have letters of introduction to members
of the Jockey Club; I did go to the races. And after a fortnight I headed for Fondon.

The private, incognito status in which I had hitherto traveled was no longer possible. I had
reached the capital and center of the Empire. At the station to meet me when I arrived was an
equerry from Buckingham Palace, representing Her Majesty; and from the India Office,

representing the Secretary of State, there was the Political Aide-de-Camp, Sir Gerald
Fitzgerald. I went to the Albemarle Hotel in Piccadilly, which was my headquarters and base
throughout that spring and summer.

Soon after I reached the hotel the Duke of Connaught, who had known me in my childhood
and boyhood at home, paid a call and stayed for a long time. The British Royal Family's
watchful and friendly interest in me had not abated.

London in the nineties has been written about ad nauseam, yet it is difficult to exaggerate the
magnetic effect and the splendor of London in that sunlit heyday of the Victorian age — the
ease, the security, the affluence, the self-confidence. The City was the financial center of the
civilized world, immensely rich, immensely powerful. From Westminster a great Empire was
governed with benevolent assurance. If the Foreign Office were dowdy and inconvenient, if
the India Office's methods of administering a subcontinent were tortuous and archaic, who
could deny the irresistible sense of power and authority concentrated in those few small
acres? The outward show of that power and that authority was magnificently impressive. The
pound sterling was a gold sovereign, and purchased about eight times what its paper
equivalent does today. The gradations from rich to poor were steep; yet throughout much of
society there was diffused a general sense of prosperity. There was no welfare state, but there
was a robust, genial feeling that Britain was top dog, and there was gaiety, vigor and
adventurousness about life for the mass of the people.

Real power, political and economic, was in the hands of a few. The rulers of England and the
Empire consisted of a small closed circle of the aristocracy and those members of the rising
plutocracy who had attached themselves to, and got themselves accepted by, the aristocracy.
To that circle my own rank and the august connections which I possessed gave me a direct
and immediate entry. I who have lived to see the demagogue and the dictator in power in a
large part of what was once civilized Europe saw in my young manhood, at very close
quarters, the oligarchy which controlled Victorian England and the Empire.

The London season was just beginning when I arrived. I was immediately swept into the
middle of it all. All doors in society were open to me. I took my place in a glittering, superbly
organized round and ritual: Epsom, Ascot, Newmarket; a dinner at Lansdowne House, at
Lord Ripon's or Lord Reay's; the opera and a ball at a great ducal mansion; garden parties,
country-house week ends. Formal clothes were de rigueur in London, a frock coat or a
morning coat, a stiff collar and a silk hat and gloves, however hot the weather. Church parade
on a Sunday morning in Hyde Park was a stately occasion, with its own elaborate ceremony.
There was the detailed ritual of calling. From royalty downward the whole of society was
organized with a care and a rigidity inconceivable today. To recall it all now is indeed to
evoke a vanished world.

In due course I was summoned to an audience with Her Majesty at Windsor Castle. She
received me with the utmost courtesy and affability. The only other person in the room during
this first audience was my old patron, the Duke of Connaught, in whose presence I did not
feel shy or overawed. The Queen, enfolded in voluminous black wraps and shawls, was

seated on a big sofa. Was she tall or short, was she stout or not? I could not tell; her posture
and her wraps made assessments of that kind quite impossible. I kissed the hand which she
held out to me. She remarked that the Duke of Connaught was a close friend of my family
and myself. She had an odd accent, a mixture of Scotch and German — the German was
perfectly explicable by the fact that she was brought up in the company of her mother, a
German princess, and a German governess. Baroness Lehzen. She also had the German
conversational trick of interjecting "so" — pronounced "tzo" — frequently into her remarks.
She observed that since I was a prince myself and the descendant of many kings, she would
not ask me to kneel, or to receive the acco lade and the touch of the sword upon my shoulder,
but she would simply hand the order to me. I was greatly touched by her consideration and
courtesy. This, the K.C.I.E. was the first British Order which I received.

A little later I was bidden to stay the night at the castle and dine with Her Majesty. This too
was a memorable experience. I sat at dinner between the Queen and her daughter Princess
Beatrice -Princess Henry of Battenberg, mother of Queen Ena of Spain. The Queen was
wearing her customary black — that mourning which, from the day after her husband died,
she never put off. On her wrist she wore a large diamond bracelet set in the center of which
was a beautiful miniature of the Prince Consort, about three inches long and two inches wide.
The Queen was then seventy-nine; the vigor of her bearing and the facility and clarity of her
conversation were astonishing.

There were several high officers of State present, including the Lord Chancellor, the Earl of
Halsbury, a small, squat, unimpressive looking man. I was both surprised and amused when
the Queen murmured to me that Lord Halsbury, though not much to look at, was a formidable
lawyer and statesman. The Queen talked to me especially about India. Were British senior
officials and representatives, she asked, civil or were they wanting in manners toward Indian
Princes and gentry? I replied truthfully that so far as I and my family were concerned, we had
always been treated with impeccable kindness and courtesy by British officials with whom
we came in contact. Throughout dinner the Queen and the two guests to right and left of her -
- myself and the Lord Chancellor — were served by her Indian attendants, who were the same
kind of rather second-rate servants whom I had noticed in her entourage at Nice.

The dinner was long and elaborate — course after course, three or four choices of meat, a hot
pudding and an iced pudding, a savory and all kinds of hothouse fruit — slow and stately in its
serving. We sat down at a quarter past nine, and it must have been a quarter of eleven before
it was all over. The Queen, in spite of her age, ate and drank heartily — every kind of wine
that was offered and every course, including both the hot and the iced pudding. After dinner,
in the state drawing room each guest was presented to Her Majesty and had a few moments'
conversation with her. She gave me a jeweled portrait of herself, decorated with the rose of
England, the thistle of Scotland and the harp of Ireland — and the harp was in emeralds. Next
morning her munshi, her Indian secretary, came to me and gave me something which the
Queen had herself written in Urdu and Arabic characters.

To be Queen-Empress was for Queen Victoria to possess no formal and remote title. She was
keenly alert and sensitive to the views and needs of her Indian subjects, and her liking and

sympathy for them were warm and genuine. I particularly remember that at dinner she said to
me with great earnestness she hoped that when British people in India visited mosques and
temples, they conducted themselves with respect and reverence as they would in cathedrals in
their own land.

During this visit to England I first made the acquaintance of various other members of the
British Royal Family — first among them, of course, the Prince of Wales, later to become
King Edward VII. From the first the Prince was extremely kind to me. He had me at once
made an honorary member of his own club, the Marlborough, and some months later, early in
1899, he himself nominated me for full membership. In those days membership in the
Marlborough, thus conferred, had a special social and personal significance; one was
stamped, as it were, as a personal friend of the Prince of Wales. I may mention in passing that
I am still, after more than fifty years, a member of the Marlborough-Windham; and when I
am in London, I still drop in there to look at the newspapers. The head hallporter and I are by
now quite the oldest inhabitants; he entered the service of the Club in, I think, 1896 or 1897.
Together he and I recall old times, and our conversation evokes many, many ghosts whose
living presence, as we knew them in our youth, are very real to us.

For the last decade of his life I was honored with the warm, personal friendship of King
Edward VII. My association with him was far from formal. He was elderly and I was young,
and at the outset a stranger, but he treated me always with the greatest kindness and
benevolence. Indeed if I search for a word in which to sum up King Edward's character, the
answer is to be found in "benevolent." He wished everybody well. It is perfectly true that he
had a great taste for the good things in life, that he enjoyed having a good time; but sincerely
and steadily he wanted everyone else — the humblest as well as the highest of his subjects —
to have a good time too.

He cared a great deal about the alleviation of pain and suffering. His patronage of hospitals
was something which he undertook not as a mere Royal duty, nor for that matter as a fad or
personal fancy; it was one expression of a deeply felt attitude toward life, a spontaneous and
generous sympathy with suffering in all its forms.

Two of his remarks on this subject have been often quoted. I who knew him so well know
that they came from the bottom of his heart. "The man who discovers a cure for cancer ought
to have a statue to his memory in every capital of Europe." I can bear the very inflexion in his
voice as he said that; and the other, about certain diseases which doctors describe as
preventable, "If preventable, why not prevented?"

In 1904, when a state visit to India by the then Prince of Wales -later King George V — was
being discussed, I happened to be in England, and the King sent for me in private audience at
Buckingham Palace. He questioned me closely and at length about hospital conditions in
India, and disclosed considerable knowledge as well as great concern. He was especially
worried about the terrible state of hospitals in the big cities, particularly Calcutta, and he told
me that he proposed to brief his son thoroughly on this subject and make him insist on a
close, personal report on several city hospitals. He said too that he advocated the

establishment of homes in the mountains, and in healthier areas of the country, for the
prevention and early treatment of tuberculosis.

Nearly two years later, in the summer of 1906, the King, in another long private conversation,
reverted in great detail to this subject. He commended the Prince of Wales' work along the
lines he had himself indicated, and it was a commendation which I could support from my
own knowledge. The King had also had a series of independent reports, and he knew that I,
with a group of friends, had established a sanatorium in a hill station for the treatment of
tuberculosis in its earlier stages.

King Edward's close interest in pain and sickness and their alleviation (had it something to do
perhaps with his own attack of typhoid, which so nearly proved fatal?) was not prompted by
his sense of kingly duty, but sprang — I am convinced — from his real humanity. It is
significant, I think, that it was enhanced and deepened after his own other grave illness, just
before his Coronation. He himself was dignified and brave in face of physical pain; but he
disliked it exceedingly and sought to diminish its assaults — for others more than for himself.

It has been widely held that King Edward was anti-German, and that he had a prejudice
against Germany as a nation because he did not get on well with his nephew, the Kaiser
William II. The evidence to the contrary is strong, both from the King's own lips and from
witnesses as reliable as Baron von Eckardstein and Count Wolf Metternich — both of whom
held positions of influence and authority in their respective periods in the Embassy in London
— who went out of their way to tell me that the King was completely sincere in his desire for
friendship between Britain and Germany, and that he strove, to the utmost of his ability, to
remain on good terms with his nephew. That there were deep and subtle personal differences
and difficulties between them cannot be denied. The relationship was almost bound to be
strained. The Kaiser acceded to his throne as a very young man, and for a decade or more he
was in full control of all the affairs of state in his own country; whereas his uncle, a middle-
aged man, chafed at not being allowed any sort of responsibility and indeed not being
allowed even to read the Foreign Office papers. The Kaiser was never the most tactful or self-
effacing of men; in twentieth-century terms he suffered from an enormous inferiority
complex. He never forgot to assert himself. His uncle strove valiantly to repress his natural
irritation; it was rarely indeed that he blew up, or behaved toward his nephew other than with
courtesy and consideration, albeit tinged with the irony which a sage and experienced man of
the world could command.

King Edward had a stern sense of decorum; he knew what was fitting in a King and what was
fitting in behavior toward a King. He strongly disliked anybody's taking liberties or taking
advantage of his own urbanity and kindness. But I do know of several examples of lapses
which earned his peremptory disapproval; yet when the delinquent either wrote directly to
His Majesty and apologized or asked for pardon through one of the officials of the palace,
and demonstrated that he sincerely regretted his offense, the King not only forgave but forgot,
and the offender was never shown the slightest hostility or coldness. King Edward was
genuinely magnanimous.

He also possessed a great fund of considerate tact in matters great and small. One winter a
wealthy and well-known American resident in Paris, a Mrs. Moore, who was the King's
friend and mine (the King was often her guest at dinner at Biarritz), was visiting London. The
King called on her one bleak afternoon, when there had been a hard frost all day. Mrs. Moore
received the King in her warm drawing room upstairs, and he stayed to tea by her fireside. A
few minutes after he had taken his leave there was a knock on the drawing-room door. A
Royal footman came in and gave her a note. It was a habit of the King always to have paper,
pencils and small envelopes close at hand so that he might jot down any ideas that occurred
to him. The King's note to Mrs. Moore that winter afternoon warned her that when she went
out she must be very careful because the pavement was slippery and she might easily fall and
hurt herself. The King sat waiting in his car until the footman came back from delivering the
message.

I recall one occasion when he showed the same tact toward me, and after forty-four years I
can still give the precise time and place. It was the Friday of Ascot Week in 1909. The King
had asked me to luncheon in the Royal Box. I was sitting at His Majesty's table. When the
main dish was served, the waiters by-passed me, a little to my surprise, and then a couple of
cutlets were put in front of me.

The King called to me across the table in his strong, deep voice. "I thought you wouldn't like
the thing on the menu," he said, "so I ordered those cutlets for you."

I glanced at my neighbor's plate and saw a piece of ham on it. The King had realized that I,
as a Muslim, would not want to eat the ham, nor would I like to refuse what was put before
me at his table, so carefully he had made his own arrangements.

Digressing for a moment, may I say this sort of tact is essential for people in high places.
During Lord Curzon's viceroyalty the eldest son of the then Amir of Afghanistan paid a state
visit to Calcutta. On the night of his arrival a special state banquet was given in his honor. I
was one of the guests; I sat opposite the Afghan Prince and had a front-row view of a
lamentable affair. To my dismay I realized that the soup was well laced with sherry; before
the Prince had time to lift his first spoonful to his lips, the political agent who was sitting
beside him said in officious and self-important tones: "Your Highness, there is sherry in this
soup."

In supposed strict conformity with Muslim canons, the Prince put aside his soup untouched.
His fish course had nothing obnoxious about it and he tucked into it happily enough. The first
entree had some slices of ham in it, and sadly the Prince watched that go past him. Then there
was a vegetable dish, and it was clearly, blatantly decorated with bits of bacon fat. All the
main part of the dinner was thus an unprofitable blank for the poor Prince. At last came the
ice cream. Eagerly the Prince prepared to attack it.

"Your Highness," said the officious politico, "it's got chartreuse in it."

Resignedly the Prince put his spoon down again — and compensated himself, in the end, with
a cheese savory and some dessert. It was curious that Lord Curzon never had the slightest

awareness that his chief guest left the table hungry. It was all the more odd in that Lord
Curzon in his own house — I was more than once his guest at Hackwood — was the most
considerate and thoughtful host imaginable. The explanation was, I suppose, that as Viceroy
he left the day-to-day running of his house to his staff, and someone blundered — in a fashion
which Lord Curzon would never have permitted in his own home.

I will confess that I myself have been embroiled in a similar disaster — in Bombay, and at the
Willington Club of all places, whose head steward was a Parsee. I gave a big dinner party at
which a number of Hindu Maharajahs were my guests. I went to the Club beforehand and
told the steward who my guests were to be; I said that they were very strict about their food
and that of course on no account should beef be served.

"I understand, Your Highness," said he. "I shall be very careful. Nothing wrong will happen, I
assure you."

We sat down to dinner, quite an assemblage of Hindu Maharajahs, some of them Rajputs of
the most orthodox religious outlook. Everything went along agreeably until the main course
was served. Then to my horror I saw plate after big plate of ox-tongue. My guests could well
construe this miserable faux -pas as a direct and studied insult; I apologized abjectly. As soon
as dinner was over, I found the steward and rated him soundly.

"What on earth were you up to? I warned you not to serve beef!"

"But, Your Highness," he expostulated, "they were ox-tongues." He was a Parsee, he had
lived in India all his life, and incredible as it may seem, he still thought that ox-tongue would
not count as beef.

The effect of this kind of prohibition or instruction about diet, imposed in one's childhood,
with the sanction of religion to support it and the tradition probably of many centuries, is
strong and long enduring. I remember that I was once dining in Europe with an Indian friend,
a Hindu, a man of profound learning and wide culture, whose reaction when a calf s head was
put on the table was one of obvious shock and deep distress. He seemed to be almost on the
edge of a nervous collapse. A few days later when I asked him why — apart from a quite
understandable religious disapproval -he had been so upset, he said that for him to see a calf s
head thus displayed on a table was as immediately horrifying as if a human baby's head had
been offered.

"How would you feel," he said, "if the chef cooked you a baby's head and served it in aspic,
tastefully garnished?"

There is no ready answer. I once asked another friend, a wise and highly educated Brahmin, a
Cambridge scholar, whether he -who had never had any animal food in his life, except milk
products, and whose ancestors for two thousand years or so had never touched eggs, fish or
meat — had any instinctive feeling of repulsion to this kind of food.

He hesitated for a long time and at length answered, "You know, if you had been brought up
as I have been, I doubt if you would ever, all your life, get over the instinctive horror of the
stink of meat or fish or eggs."

Well, I have wandered some distance from London in that faroff summer of 1898, a long way
from my first introduction to London society. I have spoken of its gaieties, its splendors, its
race meetings, its garden parties, its great dinners, its nights at the opera, perhaps after the
opera a final, late-night call at the Marlborough, and a chat with the Prince of Wales — he had
a way of dropping in at the club on his way home for a last drink (hot water, lemon and gin it
always was) — but I must not give the impression that I spent all my time frivolously.

My friend Professor Haffkine in Bombay had given me more than one introduction to
distinguished scientists in England, including Lord Lister, the great surgeon, who was most
hospitable. I also met Lord Kelvin, then the doyen of English scientists, who (as I have
remarked elsewhere) assured me that flying in heavier-than-air machines was a physical
impossibility. I was often the guest of the Baroness Burdett-Coutts, at whose house I met
several of the leading spiritualists of the period.

I called too on Miss Florence Nightingale. She and the Baroness, next to Queen Victoria
herself, were the most eminent women of the time. Though by now advanced in years and a
complete invalid, confined to a sofa in her drawing room in her Park Lane home, Miss
Nightingale retained a formidable interest in affairs. One of the topics on which she kept
herself most closely and fully informed was the British administration of India — especially
so far as it concerned matters of health and hygiene. Over the years she had constituted
herself an august unofficial adviser to the Raj, although she had never been to India. Both the
India Office and the War Office knew the strength and urgency of Miss Nightingale's
memoranda. No newly appointed Viceroy would have dared, before he left England to take
up his appointment, to omit a call on Miss Nightingale, and for all of them a profitable and
helpful experience it proved to be. She laid out the plans for the system of military
cantonments established for British garrisons all over India; she devised a medical
administrative system, and systems of pay and allowances which subsisted almost without
change in detail, certainly without change in principle, until the end of British rule in India.

It was perfectly natural that I should call on her. Lytton Strachey, that entertaining but far
from reliable historian, chose in his essay on Miss Nightingale in Eminent Victorians to give
an account of my first visit to her which is a ludicrous caricature. What he omits to mention is
that we became fast friends and that I went back to see her again and again. Naturally enough
she talked at length, eloquently and earnestly, about what could and could not be done for the
betterment of health in India, particularly among women and children.

I ventured, however, on more general topics. I was, as I have indicated, a serious young man,
and I asked Miss Nightingale whether she thought that there had been any real improvement
in human affairs since her youth, whether faith in God had extended and deepened. Lytton
Strachey waxed sarcastic about my question, but I still think it was very much to the point.
Miss Nightingale, anyway, saw it as such, and discussed it with the gravity with which I had

propounded it. After all, there had occurred in Miss Nightingale's lifetime (and in mine it has
been redoubled) a vast and rapid increase in man's power to exploit his natural resources —
from steam propulsion to the internal combustion engine and thence to atomic fission —
whose relation to or divorce from faith in God and all that such faith means in action, is a
topic of some importance. Miss Nightingale did not see fit, like Mr. Lytton Strachey, to
dismiss it with a snigger; she gave me her views on it and she honored me henceforth with
her friendship.

That same summer I met another great figure in the history of the British Army, Field
Marshal Lord Wolseley. Sir Alfred Lyall gave a breakfast party at which the guests were
Leonard Courtney, the Liberal writer and politician (later Lord Courtney), Mr. Paul,
historian and editor, Lord Wolseley and myself. Somebody mentioned Mr. Gladstone, and the
Field Marshal immediately launched into a passionate denunciation of Gladstone and all his
works; there was no word too bad for him, none of us could get a sentence in, and we sat
listening to an unbridled tirade. Gladstone was the most evil and destructive influence of his
time, responsible for a catastrophic decline in Britain's prestige and authority in Europe and
throughout the world, responsible for the disaster in the Sudan, personally accountable for the
death of General Gordon -in short and despite the fact that at least half the population of
England idolized him (irrespective of what the other half thought), a malefactor who ought
not to be at large in civilized society.

Although Lord Wolseley's depth of feeling and degree of outspokenness surprised me greatly
at Sir Alfred Lyall's breakfast table, I subsequently came to recognize this attitude and
manner, in regard to Gladstone, as not unusual. I remember that when Gladstone died,
although the tone of public comment was respectful, society's private remarks as I heard them
at dinner parties or in great country houses (and the most influential sections of society were
Conservative and Unionist) were fiercely critical and unforgiving. In latter years too I recall
how the same people talked about Lloyd George (of whom I shall have a good deal to say).
Even now, so I believe, a certain member of the Labor party, of Welsh origin like Lloyd
George, is a ferocious bogey to his Tory opponents.

Of course in purely liberal circles one heard very different opinions. I was the guest that
summer of Lord Spencer, who had been a close colleague of Gladstone's and a member of his
Cabinet. He took a small house near Birmingham for the agricultural show. On the last night
of my stay, when all the other guests had gone, Lord Spencer talked freely if somberly about
that perennially critical issue in British politics in the Victorian Age, the Irish Question. This
was 1898; Gladstone's attempt to introduce Home Rule had long been shipwrecked; Lord
Salisbury's Unionist Government was securely in power, and its Irish policy consisted of
"firm government" — associated with Arthur Balfour's name — and attempts to tackle the
thorny problem of land tenure. Lord Spencer insisted that there was no way of settling
Ireland's problems except by giving her full political freedom, that twenty years — or two
hundred years — of police rule would not make the Irish "loyal" or submissive; that a great
chance had been missed in 1886 and that it would not occur again; the inevitable
consequences, soon or late, would be an armed rebellion, with all its accompanying
bloodshed and murder, and at the end the loss of Ireland to the Empire. Within a quarter of a

century every detail of the prophecy to which I listened that summer night in 1898 was to be
meticulously fulfilled. And in India there were those who watched the working out of
Ireland's destiny and were fully cognizant of the lessons it taught, the message it signaled
across the world.

Back in London I saw the season through to the end; and then in August when English
society began its stately annual exodus to Cowes and to Scotland, I set forth on my European
travels again, to Paris once more and thence to Geneva and Lausanne, to Italy and to Vienna,
still then the capital city of a great, historic Empire.

During this otherwise pleasant summer I was greatly shocked and saddened by a grievous
piece of news from India. A near kinsman, Hashim Shah, whose father was my elder half-
brother, was murdered by a steward in my house in Poona. Mercifully this was not, as the
assassinations in Jeddah in 1896 had been, prompted by motives of religious fanaticism, but
the outcome of personal resentment and some personal grudge. However, its warning could
not be discounted; there was an element of lawlessness and violence in my own close
surroundings which would, sooner or later, have to be dealt with firmly if it were not to
become a running sore in the life of Bombay and Poona.

Part Two

YOUNG MANHOOD

Monarchs, Diplomats and Politicians

MY EXPERIENCES IN LONDON and during my Continental tour widened my horizons
and stimulated my growing interest in -and desire to play my part in — the world of politics
and diplomacy. Not long after my arrival in England I was in touch with and was soon fully
in the confidence of Sir William Lee Warner, the head of the Political Department of the
India Office, the department which handled all the secret and confidential aspects of foreign
relations. Through my friendship with a leading race horse owner, Sir J. B. Maple (founder
and head of the big furniture store which bears his name), I made the acquaintance of his son-
in-law, Baron von Eckardstein, who, since the Ambassador was a sick man, was in virtual
charge of the German Embassy.

In the close and frequent company of these friends of mine I was able to observe at first hand
the working out of a series of diplomatic moves of considerable importance. There was a
growing awareness in certain circles in Britain that that "splendid isolation," which had
seemed so natural and desirable only a short time before, had its grave disadvantages. The
South African crisis was soon to reveal sharply how truly isolated Britain was; the depth and
bitterness of anti-British feeling throughout Europe were far too pronounced to ignore. The
leading spirit in Lord Salisbury's Cabinet in these years was Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, the
Colonial Secretary, a realist, despite the sometimes visionary nature of his imperialist ideals,

who was acutely cognizant of the dangers of Britain's situation. Surveying the trends of world
power at that time he believed that it might be possible to reach an understanding with
Germany, and he saw clearly the perils ahead if that understanding were not reached. His
official biography * has lately revealed the extent and the pertinacity of Chamberlain's efforts
to secure an Anglo-German entente.

* The Life of Joseph Chamberlain, Vol. Ill, by J. L. Garvin; Vol. IV, by Julian Amery (
London, Macmillan & Co. Ltd.).

My own recollections confirm this to the hilt. It was a sincere and strenuous effort on
Britain's part to achieve an understanding; and it failed solely because of the German attitude,
which was the result of the outlook and prejudices of the chief German negotiators, Prince
von Billow and Herr von Holstein. Not only did I watch the British approaches; I was fully
cognizant of the German reactions to them, through my friendship with von Eckardstein. I
could see how sad Eckardstein became at the constant rejection of Britain's sincere hand of
friendship — a rejection always based on new and artificial pretexts and evasions. It is sad
indeed to reflect on the long-term results of the breakdown of these negotiations. Might not
the course of history in the twentieth century have been profoundly different had
Chamberlain succeeded in averting the steady, implacable growth of Anglo-German
antagonism? Would we not quite possibly have avoided two world wars? Had the Germans
played the game, this would certainly have happened; but the great question mark for
European peace lay always in Germany's attitude.

The temperament of the two Germans involved in these negotiations prevented them from
rising to the greatness of the chance they were given. They had grown up in the shadow of
the great Bismarck, but they were not of his quality of statesmanship. They were essentially
small bureaucrats with all of Bismarck's arrogance, and they were ineradicably suspicious of
what they thought of as British cunning and perfidy.

Long, long afterward Lord Rennell — formerly Sir Rennell Rodd, and for many years British
Ambassador in Rome — told me that after the First World War, when Prince von Billow was
living in retirement in Rome, they discussed this whole episode. Von Billow admitted with
great hesitation and ruefully that he had been wrong to reject the hand of friendship which
had been offered by Britain in sincerity and earnestness of purpose.

When my first European tour ended, I set off for East Africa. This, however, was no pleasure
jaunt. One or two delicate and important tasks demanding the exertion of a certain amount of
diplomatic skill and finesse awaited me there. There were several Ismaili settlements down
the coast, which were rapidly increasing in numbers and in wealth; and more than one of
these communities was involved in disputes — by no means of a trifling character -with the
local authorities.

East Africa was at the beginning of its rapid, even sensational, opening up and development,
but at the turn of the century it presented a very different picture from that which it presents
today. Several European powers with colonial aspirations were embroiled, down the
thousands of miles from the Red Sea to the Cape, in what proved to be a late but dramatic

phase of the scramble for Africa. Abyssinia, the only native African state with expansionist
ambitions, had lately collided, bloodily but victoriously, with the Italians. At the Battle of
Aduwa in 1896 Ras Makonen, the able lieutenant and ultimate successor of the Emperor
Menelik, had heavily defeated an Italian army and put an end, for over thirty years, to Italy's
efforts to extend her somewhat precarious coastal foothold. The British, having entered into a
treaty with the Sultan of Zanzibar, established what was then known as the East African
Protectorate (today the flourishing colony of Kenya with its complex multiracial community),
with its base at Mombasa, under the supervision of the Foreign Office; and shortly afterward
there were projects of settlement being put forward by Lord Delamere and others, in what
came to be called "the white highlands" in the hinterland of the Protectorate.

Southward the Germans had staked their claims inland from Dar es Salaam in the territories
now known as Tanganyika. Farther south the Portuguese, who were the first Europeans to
venture into these regions in the great age of exploration, had an old-established colony. And
inland from this, Jameson and his pioneers were carving out of the empty veld and savannahs
the lands which were to become Northern and Southern Rhodesia. And to the south again the
British and the Boers were already committed to the long, grim struggle of the South African
War.

If the beginnings of future economic prosperity and greatness were already visible in the
Africa which I visited for the first time in 1899, no less noticeable were the seeds of future
political and social difficulties and problems.

Zanzibar, which I visited first, was an ancient seat of Arab culture. The Sultan no longer
exercised absolute powers but was a constitutional sovereign, acting on the advice of his
British Resident and officials. Between these officials and my Ismaili followers there had
arisen a complicated dispute concerning the ownership and tenure of a tract of land on the
seashore, the value of which had rapidly increased but which was an Ismaili burial ground.
The dispute had been stubborn and protracted. I was able, however, to arrange a settlement
which was admittedly a compromise. I confess that I have worked all my life on the principle
that a compromise is better than rigid and unyielding disagreement. The compromise which
we reached in Zanzibar was workable to this extent that there has never been any other major
dispute in the years since then between the Ismailis and the British authorities.

In Dar es Salaam I was faced with a similar sort of conflict, in this case between the German
authorities and my followers over land trading rights. This dispute had smoldered and
flickered throughout the nineties; the Germans were suspicious of my Ismaili followers, and
there were accusations that they were smuggling in arms and had had a hand in the Arab
rebellion of some ten years before. There was a certain stiffness on the part of the German
Governor and his officials when I first arrived. However I persevered, and before I left I was
able to see the dispute settled and the suspicions (which were probably one cause of the
stubbornness of the dispute) thoroughly dissipated. When I left, it was in the knowledge that
there was a clean slate, so far as differences between my followers and the German
administration were concerned.

From East Africa I went back to Europe for a short time. Then, as winter set in, I turned south
and east. On my way home to India I visited Egypt for the first time. Those who have not
experienced it, who have not been lucky enough to fall under Egypt's spell, will find it
difficult, I suppose, to realize the sheer magic of the first sight of Egypt. Add that my first
sight was on a perfect early winter day, and need I say that all my life since then I have had a
special corner in my heart for Egypt and that I have returned there as often as I could.

There is a unique quality about Egypt's charm; the wide, tranquil skies, the extraordinary
clarity of its light and atmosphere, the glories of its sunsets and its starlit nights, and its
tremendous monuments of a majestic past. But I had other objects than mere sightseeing. I
wanted to make personal contact with the large Ismaili community of Syria and the remnant
of Egyptian Ismailis who had not yet come to see me in India. I also visited the great seat of
Muslim learning, the A1 Azbar University.

It was a time of momentous and stirring events. Lord Kitchener's great victory at Omdurman
in the Sudan was still fresh in everyone's mind. General Wingate had just returned from the
south. The Khalifeh had been killed, and the last of his dervish following exterminated.

I called on Lord Cromer, the British Resident in Egypt, whose power and authority in Egypt
at that time were paramount. He said that Egypt badly needed a man like Sir Syed Ahmed, to
do for its Muslim population the sort of educative and regenerative work which he had done
in Aligarh. There was in Egypt at that time a deep rift between, on the one hand, the old-
fashioned conservative, pious Muslim, who was contemptuous of modern science and
techniques and who spoke and read Arabic and, on the other hand, the Frenchified upper
classes, whose reading matter was mainly French yellow-back novels, whose meeting place
was the club, whose diversions were cards and nocturnal gambling, who detested the British,
yearned to see them out and longed for a return to the regime of the Khedive Ismaili. There
was nothing like Aligarh to show the vast Muslim population the way toward a compromise
with and understanding of modem, Western science, and to raise an elite capable of co-
operating with British administrators and technicians in that process of economic and social
uplift of which the country was in such desperate need.

Unfortunately the Khedive Abbas Hilmi was ill at the time — it was suspected that he had
some form of paratyphoid — and I was therefore unable to see him. In later years we became
great and intimate friends and I admired the brilliance of his intellect and his wide and deep
knowledge of politics and history. I will have occasion to refer to him later. The Egyptian
Ministers whom I met were merely nominees of the British — of Lord Cromer, in fact.

People who know only the Cairo of today can have no idea of the social conditions of the
early 1900's. The hotels were full of rich foreigners, who were "wintering in Egypt," then a
highly fashionable pastime. They would make trips up the Nile in hired dahabiyehs or in one
of Messrs. Thomas Cook's steamers. They spent money profusely and had a high old time,
surrounded by magnificent-looking Egyptian guides and alleged interpreters, who were apt to
speak the most grotesque pidgin variety of every European language.

The contents of the Cairo Museum were as fascinating as they have always been, and always
will be; although of course Lord Carnarvon's magnificent Tutankhamen discoveries had not
yet been made, there was more then enough to see, but the arrangement of it all was less
convenient than it is today. A disagreeable and irreverent custom prevailed of exposing in full
view, for anyone who wanted to see them, the actual mummies — not merely the sarcophagi -
- of all the great Pharaohs. You could see Rameses II, with his noble hawklike features, lying
in his coffin — looking almost as he had in life all those centuries ago — and other former
mighty kings and conquerors, at the feet of any chance passer-by.

To me, however, more concerned with the present than the past, possibly the most
remarkable fact about Cairo in those days was that it was for all practical purposes another
Poona or Simla. It was even more of a citadel of British supremacy than India. The British
were not merely in political control of the country; they assumed a social superiority which
the Egyptians appeared humbly to accept. What little political agitation that existed was
attributed to the "machinations of the Palace." The general attitude of all classes toward the
British Occupying Power — its agents and officials, the British Army officers and the
growing number of employees of British firms — was one of outward submissiveness and
obedience. Unhappily, just as in India in the late nineties and early nineteen hundreds, there
was scarcely a link between the British community, political, military and commercial, and
either the Egyptian aristocracy or the well-to-do bourgeoisie of Cairo and Alexandria. When
rich Egyptians came to Europe, they went to Paris, to Switzerland, to Austria or Germany or
Italy; they carefully kept clear of England. Few of the winter tourists, except for some
individuals from the Continent, bothered to get to know Egypt's upper and middle classes.
Even the Gezira Sporting Club, in the heart of the metropolitan Cairo, barred Egyptians from
its membership other than in very exceptional cases. The only non-British whom the British
encountered — except for their office subordinates and their servants — were the members of
a few wealthy Levantine families who sought to identify themselves completely with the
ruling power and were thus accepted. The depth and virulence of this social division can be
seen in the fact that I myself, who naturally in my European travels met Egyptians — largely
of the aristocracy and members of the ruling dynasty — seldom met one of them when I was
in Cairo except in their own homes. There was really no common ground of social
intercourse. Inevitably, therefore, behind the fagade of humility there developed a sullen and
brooding, almost personal, resentment which later on needlessly, bitterly poisoned the clash
of Egyptian nationalism with Britain's interests as the Occupying Power. After three weeks or
so in Cairo I went home to India, where the work I had done had not passed unnoticed by
those concerned. The Sultan of Zanzibar bestowed on me the highest order in his gift, the
Brilliant Star of Zanzibar, and later the German Emperor awarded me the Royal Prussian
Order of the Crown (First Class).

From India I made a brief tour of Burma and met my follow ers there for the first time. I
recall one somewhat daunting experience. A Muslim of my acquaintance — not one of my
followers — had been very kind to me and had helped me in a variety of ways. I called on him
to thank him, and as we exchanged courtesies he sent for a glass of sherbet for me. It was
brought. The tall tumbler was held out toward me by a servant, and I saw that the hands that

held it were the hands of a leper. Time seemed suspended as I stared horror-struck. I found
every excuse I could, said that I was not thirsty, tried to get out of accepting the tumbler still
held out toward me. But my host earnestly pressed me and went on pressing me. At last I shut
my eyes, took the tumbler and gulped the sherbet down; but the horror of those hands
remained.

I was back in Europe in 1900, and in Paris in that year — the year of the Great Exhibition —
met the Shah Musafaradin of Persia. No other Shah, in my view, did more to harm Persia
than he did. He was sickly, he was weak and he was grossly ignorant. He was capricious and
extravagant, squandering gifts on his favorites, and incapable of any awareness of his duties
and obligations as Shah. All the treasure which his father, Nasruddin, had amassed in fifty
years of prudent and capable rule, he dissipated in folly and waste. He had a childish, pitiable
passion for the silliest, most costly gadgets — musical boxes, for example, adorned with
jewels and gold and silver, and on these and similar trumpery objects he spent a fortune. It
was no wonder that making a pun on his name, Musafaradin, the Persian intelligentsia
nicknamed him "mauvaise affaire," and their gibe was taken up by foreigners in Tehran.

He was indeed a "mauvaise affaire" for his country. Since I was his relative, connected with
him on my father's and my mother's sides of the family, he received me with eager affection,
gave me one of his highest decorations and made me presents of diamond ornaments. But he
was a sad nincompoop. Talking to him was like talking to a child — and not a very intelligent
child at that. His infantile outlook and behavior were sustained and exploited, for his own
purposes, by his Prime Minister, the all-powerful Atabeg, who in his morning audiences with
his sovereign did not give him serious reports but told him the sort of fantastic fairy tales a
grown-up man will tell a small child to keep him entertained.

When I saw the poor man I happened to mention that I had just been to Burma. "Oh!" said he,
"haven't the Burmans heads far bigger than other human beings?"

When he was in Paris he heard about Monsieur and Madame Curie and their discovery of
radium. He asked to be shown radium at work. The two distinguished scientists said that they
would come to his hotel and give him a demonstration of the properties of radium; but they
explained that absolute darkness would be necessary for the demonstration. One of the hotel
cellars was turned into a dark room; black curtains were put up and all light was completely
shut out. The Shah and some of his courtiers went down to the cellar. Monsieur and Madame
Curie arrived and produced a piece of radium whose vivid glow lit up the whole room.
Suddenly the Shah took fright. He began to scream and shout and run round the room. He
raved and ranted and accused the Curies of trying to murder him.

The Curies were not used to this kind of treatment and, much affronted, they took their leave.
The Shah was at last made to understand that he had gravely hurt their feelings. As a
recompense he awarded each of them one of his highest decorations, and for good measure he
ordered each star to be set in diamonds. Off went the baubles to the Curies, who stiffly
returned them with formal thanks, pointing out that they had been exposed to far too gross an
insult to be able to accept anything of this kind.

Naturally the Shah had to go up the Eiffel Tower, and, naturally, about halfway up he
panicked; the lift had to be stopped and he had to be brought down again.

His behavior in public and in private was deplorable. Since I am myself of Iranian descent
and a member of the then ruling dynasty, the Kajar family, I was acutely aware of the shame
and humiliation of it. So too were Iranian statesmen and diplomats, who were scandalized at
what he was doing to his own and his country’s reputation. We all tried to cloak it as much as
we could and made excuses about his ill health, which had a certain basis of truth because he
was a chronic sufferer from kidney trouble.

His folly, of course, had different, deeper roots. He exhibited, in an especially lurid light, all
the dangers of the old-fashioned autocratic Oriental monarchy. However incompetent, silly or
criminal such a despot was, not one of the able and intelligent statesmen of the world around
him ever stood up to him and told him the truth about himself. The mysterious prestige
surrounding kingship and the blood of kings induced a kind of mental paralysis even in good
and sincere men, so that they were quite unable — in the interests of their king and their
country, even in their own interests — to give true advice and guidance. From what I have
been told by distinguished Russian friends, this sort of atmosphere prevailed in Czarist
Russia. Did it disappear, I wonder, even in Stalinist Russia? You could not call the men who
were thus paralyzed cowards; they were not time-servers, they were not utterly lacking in
courage or scruples. It was simply that for them such divinity hedged their king that it was
not a matter merely of pardoning his follies and weaknesses — for them those follies and
weaknesses simply did not exist. Again and again history teaches this lesson: a tough, self-
made man founds a dynasty, his frailer descendants bolster themselves with this atmosphere
of semidivinity, and then the dynasty collapses and the process starts anew, unless, as
happened in Japan for centuries, the semidivine monarch is shut up in his palace,
unapproachable, invisible, and all power is exercised on his behalf by mayors of the palace.
Poor Musafaradin was a glaring example of the more pitiable defects of this kind of
despotism.

From Paris I went on to Berlin. There I met von Holstein at luncheon — one of the two men
responsible for frustrating the attempts to achieve an Anglo-German understanding. He was a
gray, withdrawn, taciturn man who ate heartily and said little. I also had an audience with the
Kaiser at Potsdam. William II was then, I suppose, at the summit of his strange and ill-starred
career. To me he was gracious and cordial. I had been warned that he was acutely sensitive
about his physical deformity and disliked having his withered left arm looked at. But
members of his court and others who knew him said that the curiosity of human beings is
such that everybody, meeting the Kaiser for the first time, found his gaze drawn
automatically and irresistibly to the left side of his uniform. While I awaited my audience I
said to myself over and over again, "You won't look at his arm, you won't look at his arm."

He strode into the room; my eyes became a law unto themselves, and there I was staring at
his left arm. Fortunately for me, I suppose, he must have been so accustomed to this that he
did not let it diminish the warmth and courtesy of his greeting.

He held out his right hand and shook hands with me. This was literally a crushing experience.
As a compensation for his deformity the Kaiser had, from childhood, determined that his
right hand and arm should be so strong that they would do the work of two. He took constant,
vigorous exercise; every day he had at least twenty minutes' fencing; he played lawn tennis
often for two hours at a time, and undertook all manner of other remedial exercises. The
result was an immense development of strength in his right hand and arm; one of its effects
was this appallingly powerful handshake. I am told that mine was no unusual experience. The
Duchess of Teck (later the Marchioness of Cambridge) told me that she — like most other
women with whom His Imperial Majesty shook hands — had the greatest difficulty in not
letting out a cry of pain as he took her hand in his.

I am sure that he was quite unconscious of what he was doing. He was far too great a
gentleman to do it on purpose; but just as our eyes went to his withered arm, so his
subconscious made him exert this violent physical strength.

Looking back, I realize that I was having a good many audiences with monarchs at this time.
Later in this same year I went to Constantinople. The Sultan, Abdul Hamid, made me his
guest at the Pera Palace Hotel, and I had a long audience with him at the Yildiz Palace. This
encounter was the subject of a good deal of rather wild political speculation — most of it
arrant guesswork — at the time and subsequently. The Sultan was also Caliph and therefore
the recognized head of the whole Sunni branch of the Islamic world, and I was the head of
the Ismaili section of the Shias. The grounds for speculation were obvious.

Our meeting had for me, I must say, its own rather curious flavor of drama. Abdul Hamid
lived then in neurotic fear of assassination. * He was a chain smoker, and I have all my life
been, as they say, allergic to cigarettes. When I was ushered into his room, the doors were
immediately locked, and the Sultan and I were alone except for an interpreter. I do not speak
Turkish and Abdul Hamid, though I believe he could read both Arabic and Persian, refused to
speak either of these languages. The room was warm and cigarette smoke hung stale and
heavy in the air. The Sultan sat huddled in an enormous greatcoat, with field marshal's
epaulettes heavy on its shoulders. Slowly I realized that this bulky and cumbrous garment
was armored, and about as bulletproof as was possible in those days. Did he think, I
wondered, that I had come there to murder him?

* It is interesting and not without irony to reali z e that the word "assassin," which has its
special contemporary meaning, was first applied many centuries ago to my ancestors and
their Ismaili followers. From time immemorial, small and oppressed minorities have had to
be given a bad name — after all, you cannot kill a dog unless you give it a bad name — and in
the Middle Ages the Ismailis were such a minority, fighting for their lives and their rights.
Their oppressors had to give them a bad name, they associated the Ismailis with the
manufacture and use of the drug hashish, and it was alleged that they were addicts. The bad
name, thus invented, stuck.

Over the lapels of the overcoat a strange and somewhat sinister countenance confronted me.
For Abdul Hamid wore heavy make-up — his beard dyed black, his lips carmined, his cheeks

rouged and his eyebrows made up to an extent that was comic. He might have been a clown
in a circus, but his eyes glowed in this preposterous make-up. Yet this maquillage was no
expression of the effeminacy of perversion; he was most virile, the sire of many children and
the affectionate husband and protector of a large harem.

Our conversation was amiable and courteous. I recall that he was interested and impressed by
the fact that I, by way of Kashgar and Sinkiang, had up-to-date and reliable information about
the Muslims of western China.

It was said that as an aspect of his neurosis about assassination, every particle of food sent up
to him had to be tasted by several people on the way, including the cook. As I had no meal
with him I cannot vouch fully for the truth of this story, but I do know that he had an idea that
the food at my hotel was not particularly good, so twice every day a landau drove up from the
palace with a cargo of china wash basins filled with excellent dishes, both Turkish and
Persian, prepared for me in the palace and sent to me by Abdul Hamid's express command.

From Constantinople I made my way home to India to tackle a task in my household and
entourage — a cleaning-up job of nightmare complexity which was to demand a great deal of
energy, patience and endurance for many months to come.

The Edwardian Era Begins

THE MURDER of my kinsman at Poona in the summer of 1898 had emphasized, in the most
sensational and unpleasant fashion, the disruptive qualities latent in the huge, ramshackle,
feudally extravagant household and entourage which I had inherited, and which I have in
previous chapters described at some length.

I was responsible by now for a dependent population of about two thousand people in my
households in Bombay and Poona. I actually supported them — most of them in idleness.

They were housed and fed at my expense. The financial burden, considerable as it was, was
not as worrying as certain other thoroughly undesirable aspects of their manner of life.

When my grandfather left Persia, he took with him — as seemed to him natural and proper —
the train of a medieval prince. But in Bombay in the last years of the nineteenth century we
were not living in the Middle Ages.

There was not only the immediate family, which was large enough. During the earlier part of
his wanderings my grandfather was accompanied by a troop of cavalry, who fought under his
command in Persia and in Afghanistan, and later rendered redoubtable assistance to Sir
Charles Napier in his conquest of Sind. At the beginning these numbered probably some two
hundred, some of princely birth, some knights and peasants, but all devoted in their
allegiance to my grandfather. When he settled in Bombay they settled around him — were
they not his liegemen who had endured and fought in his company? — and long before I was
bom and throughout my childhood, there they were, aging warriors whose battles were done,
in houses or rooms dotted about the rambling estate, with their families growing up around

them. Some of them, after they had settled down, sent for their wives from Iran, but most of
them married Indian wives.

These ex-soldiers and their families were not all. During the fifties followers came in fair
numbers from Central Asia, from Turkestan and Sinkiang, from Bokhara and Afghanistan, to
offer their loyalty and bring their tribute to my grandfather. Some returned to their own
distant homes, but some stayed, and those who stayed took Indian wives or married the
daughters of those who had settled earlier. Some Ismailis came from Africa and they brought
Negro slaves, but when they went home some of their slaves refused to go and stayed in
Bombay. Intermarrying and multiplying, all these diverse elements had grown, by 1898 or
thereabouts, into a vast assembly of two thousand people, men, women and children, with
little or nothing to do and nothing to occupy them, with no background and no roots. In my
grandfather's time and in my father's time (though they were not of course as numerous), their
dependent status was taken for granted, and throughout my long minority my mother really
had no choice but to go on housing and feeding them. As one generation aged and another
grew up (after all, half a century and more had gone by since my grandfather exiled himself
from Persia), the whole affair took on, in the view of those who accepted our bounty, the air
of a custom established in right.

The old soldiers, of course, took pensions from my grandfather. As they died off, the
pensions continued to be paid, first by my father and then by my mother during my minority;
but the original sum had to be divided among its first recipient's descendants. These were
often so numerous that by the late nineties the actual incomes received by all these
beneficiaries were small. Most of them augmented their incomes in one way or another — as
racecourse tipsters or as stable-hands, for example. Long years of this rather raffish,
irresponsible life, in and around the rapidly growing city and port of Bombay, had not tended
to make particularly worthy or useful citizens of them. But they came of high-spirited, proud
stock, and their natural energies and abilities were now being dissipated in intrigues and
feuds. Quick to take offense, they were apt to be quick, too, in drawing the knife.

Dangerous as the potentialities were, the situation had not been too bad until the murder of
my kinsman in Poona. This, as it were, touched off a fuse. From then on any attempt to
control this nest of hornets, internally by the household or from the outside by the police, met
with fierce threats. While I was on my travels I was warned that if I tried to clear up a clutter
of ne'er-do-wells, who had become a scandal and a menace, my life too would be in danger.

I was determined however to put an end to this situation. The police in Bombay were
extremely anxious for me to do nothing too summary or too rash, such as stopping all
pensions and turning the lot out into the street. Idle, well-fed, unruly, two thousand of them
from half-a-dozen races in Africa, Central Asia, Persia and Afghanistan, suddenly loose
among the population of Bombay as vagrants, would be a real public danger. And it was a
danger which the Government — as I was given firmly to understand — was not prepared to
allow.

It was essential, therefore, that if I were to deal with my problem, I must act all the time with
the full support of the Government and in close co-operation with the police. It was
particularly fortunate that I was on terms of warm friendship and understanding with Sir
William Lee Warner at the India Office. He was a tower of strength in the background. In
Bombay itself a new Governor, Lord Northcote, had succeeded Lord Sandhurst; he too
sustained me with his constant friendship and helped me through an extremely difficult task.
Without allies of this stature and authority it would have been immeasurably more difficult.

As it was, I went at it gradually and persistently. Some of the rowdiest and unruliest of all
were technically not British subjects; these were deported to the Persian Gulf and turned
loose in regions where their propensities were less dangerous than in populous, urban
Bombay. To a number I gave lump-sum gratuities, on condition that they too took themselves
off. One group I got sent off, with the help of the police, to remote hill stations, whence they
were forbidden to make their way back to Bombay. With the removal of the worst among the
older malcontents, we were able to get down to the more agreeable task of reclaiming and
educating their children. We set up schools for them and some went to the Jesuit schools
nearby; some who were conspicuously bright went on to a higher university education. They
all went out to work, and the majority of them are now, I am glad to say, and have long since
been, worthy and law-abiding citizens. Among them may be counted barristers, engineers,
senior officers of the I.M.S. and prosperous members of other professions.

But the clean-up was not an easy job, and it was not completed in a day. It was a long
struggle that was with me for many months.

Meanwhile, engrossed as I was in this arduous and unpleasant job, I had not lost touch with
the wider world. Queen Victoria's death in January, 1901, seemed the end of an age to those
of us who had been born and had grown up under the ample and glorious shade of her long
reign. We were conscious that Finis had been written to a mighty chapter.

My friend and patron, the Prince of Wales, was now upon the throne, with the title of Edward
VII. He graciously honored me with a personal invitation to be present at his Coronation in
1902. Therefore, to London I returned that summer, to a London which I knew well, to a
society in which I had many friends and where I was made warmly and happily welcome.
Already it was possible to recognize that the Edwardian Age was opening. There was a new
tone noticeable in society, a shift of standards, a recognition of the meaning and challenge of
the new century.

At first it was a gay and eventful summer. There was a whole round of shows and
entertainments, and a great deal of hospitality was shown to me and the other Indian Princes
and Maharajahs who had been invited. Suddenly on the eve of the Coronation the King, who
was no longer a young man, was taken ill. Few, I think, at the time were really aware of the
gravity of the King's illness, and the narrowness of his escape. Appendicitis was not in those
days the almost routine affair it is considered today, and an appendectomy was a serious and
danger- fraught operation. The Coronation had to be postponed; the ceremonies and rejoicings
were held in suspense; many of the distinguished foreign Royal guests, unable to wait as long

as was obviously necessary, took their leave and went home. The King made a wonderful,
rapid recovery from his operation, and by August was willing, nay eager, to face the strain
and fatigue of the elaborate and beautiful Coronation ceremony. It was not generally realized
at the time that during much of the service the King, who bore himself with great dignity
throughout, was in considerable pain.

For myself there was one particularly gratifying circumstance connected with the Coronation.
The King advanced me from the rank of K.C.I.E. to G.C.I.E. in his Coronation Honors.

In accordance with custom there was a great Coronation naval review at Spithead, which I
had the privilege of attending as the King's guest aboard his own yacht. Among the other
guests there was, I remember, the thin, slight but formidable figure of Ras Makonen, the
Abyssinian feudal chieftain who was the victorious general, right-hand man and Viceroy of
the Emperor Menelik, whom he subsequently succeeded. He possessed the quality of
inscrutability. I recall that the British Minister in Addis Ababa told me that he could always
read Menelik's mind and divine his intentions, but never Ras Makonen's. The mutability of
human affairs is aptly illustrated by the vicissitudes endured by his son, Ras Tafari, who
became the Emperor Haile Selassie, resisted the Italian invasion of his country in 1935, was
defeated and driven into exile, pleaded his cause before the League of Nations in Geneva,
then bided his time in exile and in 1941, when the Italians were crushingly defeated in East
Africa (by a small, valiant army to which India contributed magnificently), returned in
triumph to his throne. Surely this is one of the most extraordinary romances of our time, in
danger of being forgotten because there have been so many other romantic and strange
stories.

I returned to India in November of that year, 1902. 1 was surprised to find waiting for me a
letter from the Viceroy, Lord Curzon, asking me to become a member of his Legislative
Council. This was a considerable honor to a young man still in his twenties (I was by far the
youngest member), for the Viceroy's Legislative Council in those days was a small, select
body of influential people, wielding real authority. My acceptance necessitated my moving,
for the time being, to Calcutta, which was then the seat of British power in India.

The two years in which I was a member of the Legislative Council (I was asked if I would
accept nomination a second time, but I refused) had a profound and permanent effect on my
life and character, in their private and personal as well as their public aspects. For the first
time in my life I had a real, normal home of my own, with the ordinary complement of
servants and the ordinary social and domestic life of a man in my station, free of the
extraordinary accretion of hangers-on and ne'er-do-wells (remnants of whom never entirely
disappeared from Bombay and Poona) whose disruptive and menacing activities I have
described earlier in this chapter.

The effect on my public and political life was hardly less marked. I found myself working
alongside men of the caliber and quality of Lord Curzon himself and of the Commander in
Chief, the redoubtable Field Marshal Lord Kitchener of Khartoum. Among my Indian
colleagues there was the brilliant Mr. G. K. Gokhale, the outstanding Indian nationalist

statesman until the rise of Mahatma Gandhi and the Nehrus, father and son. Gokhale and I
struck up a friendship which ended only with his death. He was a caste Hindu and I was a
Muslim, but our friendship crossed the barriers of creed and race. He was a man of vision,
courage and generosity. His influence on my thought and outlook was probably considerable.
Not of course that he was the first political thinker of a different background from my own
with whom I had come in contact, or with whom I found the exchange of ideas stimulating.
Some years previously in Bombay I had come to know and like Mr. Navroji Dumasia, a
talented Parsee in the service of The Times of India and Mr. (later Sir) Frank Brown, a
British journalist and publicist who was on the staff of The Bombay Gazette and
subsequently of The Times; to these friends I owe a great deal, both in what I have done and
what I have tried to do in my political work.

In Gokhale I encountered a powerful as well as a lovable personality. I realized how deep and
strong were the forces in India of which he was the spokesman. I also saw that the
Government had become remote from the people of India, not the masses only, but the
increasing and ever more articulate and active intelligentsia. I saw at close quarters how
foreign the Government was in spirit and in atmosphere. On the other side, I saw that India's
political leaders, dissatisfied at not having succeeded in obtaining their earlier moderate
demands, had begun to seek not merely administrative reforms but the full control of their
own political destiny.

For myself, I continued to pin a great deal of faith on educational advancement. Illiteracy I
saw as a menace to people and Government alike. Poverty and disease were its sinister
consequences and accompaniments. More than once my speeches in the Legislative Council
turned into strong pleas for generous and judicious expenditures on education. I urged the
adoption of a system of universal primary education such as almost every civilized country
possessed, and pointed out as often as I could that in my view the fundamental cause of
India's extreme poverty was India's extreme ignorance.

At the same time I began to realize, during these two crucial years, that the Congress party,
the only active and responsible political organization in the country, would prove itself
incapable -was already proving itself incapable — of representing India's Muslims, or of
dealing adequately or justly with the needs and aspirations of the Muslim community. The
pressure of Hindu extremism was too strong. Already that artificial unity which the British
Raj had imposed from without was cracking. Deep-seated and ineradicable differences
expressed themselves, once political activity and aspirations had advanced beyond the most
elementary stage. The breach was there — in Hindu intransigence and lack of perception of
basic Muslim ideals and hopes. I did all I could to prevent the breach's being widened. I
maintained a campaign of remonstrance with Sir Pherozeshah Mehta, who was high in the
counsels of the Congress party, who was a friend of my family and who had known me since
childhood. I begged him to use his influence and to make Congress realize how important it
was to win Muslim confidence, but all to no avail.

Whatever the reason for their attitude, the Congress leaders persisted in ignoring the realities
of the communal situation. There were provinces in which the Muslims were in a clear

majority: in Bengal, for example, and in the Punjab, out of which the Northwest Frontier
Province had not then been carved. And about Delhi, Agra and Aligarh there had been built
up a spiritual home, sanctified by some of the most valuable of Muslim traditions and
adorned with imperishable treasures of Islamic art and culture. Some comprehension of what
this meant in Muslim minds was all we asked. And the time was propitious — as never again -
- for an understanding; earlier grave differences of opinion with Congress had dwindled into
comparative insignificance, and even the memory of them that remained could have been
wiped out — as I argued as forcibly as I could - if certain of our proposals for equitable
representation and a fair ratio of Government employment for Muslims had been accepted
and acted upon.

The primary step was that Congress should choose as its representative on the Viceroy's
Legislative Council a Muslim from Bengal or the Punjab. We drew a blank there. For
Congress obstinately continued to send third-rate Muslims from preponderantly Hindu
provinces like Madras and Bombay. Gokhale, I am convinced, was sincerely anxious to do all
he could to change his party's attitude. He could never publicly admit it, but privately he was
deeply distressed to watch his political friends and associates thus deliberately sowing the
seeds of permanent disunity between Hindu and Muslim. I made frequent, urgent
representations of practical, feasible steps by which we could have integrated Muslim
political feeling into the Congress party and presented a united front to the British
Government. Yet even the private support which Gokhale gave to my representations brought
no change of mind or heart.

I turned to my friends at Aligarh, and in particular to Nawab Mohsen-ul-Molk, who had
succeeded Sir Syed Ahmed as Muslim leader. Mohsen-ul-Molk was not hidebound; he was
moderate and realistic and not at all antagonistic either to Congress or to Hindus in general. If
there had been give-and-take in what were then quite minor matters, he would have been
willing to join forces with Congress. In such an atmosphere — assisted by the existence of a
joint electorate and joint representation — a political alliance between the two communities
was possible. Our hopes were dashed again and again. Conditions deteriorated at the next
elections; and by 1906 Mohsen-ul-Molk and I, in common with other Muslim leaders, had
come to the conclusion that our only hope lay along the lines of independent organization and
action, and that we must secure independent political recognition from the British
Government as a nation within a nation.

While I lived in Calcutta, I came to know the Right Honorable Syed Amir Ali, later a Privy
Councilor, then a Judge of the High Court in Calcutta. I had of course read his famous books
on Islam; my admiration for his learning, and for his capacity to expound and interpret our
Muslim religion, was unstinted. Although he was excluded from any participation in politics,

I had no hesitation in going to him for advice and help in my own political endeavors -above
all, to secure equitable representations of Muslims and to open the eyes of the Congress High
Command to the perils of the course on which they seemed set. But when our hopes were
frustrated, it was encouraging that Syed Amir Ali, with all his personal prestige, and his great
knowledge of Hindu-Muslim political relations (especially in Bengal), urged us on in our
efforts for the establishment of a separate Muslim organization and gave us quiet, constant

support when Nawab Mohsen-ul-Molk and I argued that our only hope of getting a fair deal
from the British was to convince them of the width of the gulf — historical, cultural and
religious -between us and our neighbors.

The Congress party, by its blindness to legitimate claims and aspirations, and by its
persistence in its ridiculous habit of choosing Muslim yes-men from Madras and Bombay as
its representatives on the Viceroy's Legislative Council, lost a great opportunity which was
not to occur again. These then were critical years, not merely in my own political
development but in that vast and complex process which brought about, in little more than
forty years, the partition of the Indian subcontinent into the separate states of Bharat and
Pakistan.

A notable event during my period of service on the Viceroy's Legislative Council was the
Coronation Durbar in Delhi, the climax of which was a magnificent parade of some forty
thousand troops who, headed by the Commander in Chief, Lord Kitchener, marched past the
representative of the King-Emperor. That representative was the King's brother, my watchful
and kind friend since my childhood, the Duke of Connaught. Immediately after the Durbar
we held a Muslim Educational Conference in Delhi, at which I spoke at some length on
several of the educational projects in whose furtherance I was active — most important of all,
Aligarh.

I ventured to make a direct plea to my friends and colleagues: "I beg of you that the cause of
a Central University — a university which, please Heaven, may rank some day with Oxford
and Leipzig and Paris as a home of great ideas and noble ideals — a university where our
youth may receive the highest instruction in the sciences of the West, a university where the
teaching of the history and literature of the East may not be scamped over for a mere
parrotlike knowledge of Western thought, a university where our youth may also enjoy, in
addition to such advantages, a Muslim atmosphere. I earnestly beg of you that the cause of
such a university should not be forgotten in the shouts of the market place that daily rise
among us."

Those sentences of mine, spoken fifty years ago, sum up the aspirations which I cherished
from the outset on behalf of Aligarh and which I have been happy to live to see fulfilled.

I had had two arduous and formative years on the Viceroy's Legislative Council. In the
summer of 1904 I returned to Europe and picked up the threads of my social and personal life
there. In the political sphere there were big changes impending. Arthur Balfour had
succeeded his uncle, Lord Salisbury, as Prime Minister and leader of the Conservative party,
but it was obvious that the long epoch of Conservative dominance in British politics was
drawing to a close. The dynamic Joseph Chamberlain had flung the issue of Protectionism
into the ring, and in so doing had gravely split the Conservative party. The Liberals were
steadily gathering their forces; the Irish Question, after some years of deceptive calm, was
simmering again; and the emergence of the Labor party -still very small in numbers — was a
portent well worth noting.

I had as yet formed no intention of racing or breeding horses in Europe, and was not to do so
until many years had elapsed, but my interest in these matters was unabated. I went regularly
to race meetings while I was in England, and it was during this summer, as I recall, that I first
made the acquaintance of Colonel Hall Walker (later Lord Wavertree), who was one of the
outstanding personalities of the British turf, immensely knowledgeable about everything to
do with horses, independent in his judgment, outspoken and didactic. Some people
considered his views and his methods so eccentric that he was nicknamed "Whimsical
Walker," but I would be the last to impugn his wisdom, his sagacity and experience. He was
then the owner of the famous Tully Stud in Ireland, which later became the Irish National
Stud, and with which in afteryears I had much to do.

I returned to Bombay that winter and set out in the following year, 1905, on my second visit
to East Africa. I urged on my Ismaili followers there some of the ideas, in intellectual and
physical education, which I was practicing and preaching in India. I was especially distressed
by the low standards of physique noticeable in Zanzibar; the incidence of tuberculosis was
high. If it was argued that the fierce tropical climate enervated those who lived in it and
induced listlessness and apathy, I could point out that the same could be said of India, and
there we were beginning to take energetic steps to combat it. In Zanzibar I had consultations
with the mukhis, the leaders of the local communities. I had a palace turned into a sports club
and center for physical training, with a running track and football and cricket pitches. I gave
prizes in all sorts of competitions, from billiards to cycling. I am glad to say that my
innovations proved a marked success.

While I was in Africa a suit was brought against me in the Bombay High Court by certain
discontented members of my family, collateral descendants of my grandfather. A series of
claims, financial and otherwise, were made against me. This case, which dragged on for
many months, was not so much a sequel of the earlier case brought against my grandfather in
the sixties, by dissident elements among the Khojas (to which I have referred in a previous
chapter), as a consequence of the generous, feudal manner in which my grandfather's
establishment in Bombay had been set up and maintained. During the protracted proceedings
a great deal of the history and background of my family and the Ismaili sect were gone into
again, commissions of inquiry were sent into distant regions of Asia and Africa to collect
evidence about my ancestors' property and affairs. My mother gave evidence on my behalf
and was complimented by the judge, who said that she had "displayed an extraordinary
memory." I was fortunate in my counsel, Mr. Inverarity, a keen and able lawyer. When at
length the hearings ended and the presiding judge, Mr. Justice Russell, summed up, his
judgment proved to be a classic example of its kind — a masterly, lucid, wide-ranging survey
of Islamic history, religion, custom and law. At the conclusion of the long and costly
business, I was fully and finally confirmed in my rights and status, and have never thereafter
been subjected to a similar challenge.

I returned to India for the cold weather of 1905-1906, in time to pay my respects to the Prince
of Wales (later King George V) in Calcutta. He was there, of course, in the middle of that
state visit to India which had been under discussion when I was in England in 1904. This was
not my first meeting with His Royal Highness (as he then was). My friendship with him and

with his beloved consort, Queen Mary, was of long standing. I first met Queen Mary in 1898
when she was Duchess of York; she was at home in England with her three young children (
King Edward VIII, later the Duke of Windsor, the late King George VI, and the Princess
Royal) while her husband was out of the country on his first tour of duty as a naval officer.

All my memories of this good and gracious pair are warmly affectionate. I have always been
proud that I won King George V's friendship and maintained it to the end of his life. He gave
me his confidence to the same degree as his father had done. He talked to me always with
utter frankness on all sorts of subjects, personal, political, sporting and social. I often had the
honor of being his guest at luncheon, first at Marlborough House when he was Prince of
Wales, and after his accession at Buckingham Palace. Luncheon was an informal, quiet
family affair, with Queen Mary and one or two of their children and myself the only guest.
Usually these luncheons were noted in the Court Circular; but from time to time, for special
reasons, public reference was not made to them. King George carried all his life the stamp of
his early training as a professional officer in the Royal Navy, with his trim and elegant figure,
his strong, fresh complexion, his nautical beard, and the tone and accent of his admirably
clear voice — an especially vivid reminder that he had exercised command at sea for many
years before the death of his elder brother had placed him directly in the succession to the
Throne. He had a short temper and was apt to show it when small things went wrong, but he
quickly got over his anger. He had a very kind heart that was easily stirred to sympathy by
the suffering of others.

I know of one example of the spontaneity and generosity of his sympathy. During the King-
Emperor's Coronation Durbar in Delhi, the Maharajah of Baroda resented the fact that he had
to go and make a public bow to the King. He demonstrated his resentment by performing his
homage in a haphazard and casual fashion. This shocked everyone who saw it, British and
Indian alike, because there was no justification for his showing open discourtesy to the King-
Emperor. He apologized in writing to the Viceroy, and, although the apology was accepted,
the King naturally felt sore about the episode and went on feeling sore for some years. But
later misfortune descended upon the Maharajah of Baroda; more than one of his sons died in
their young manhood, and then another fell grievously ill. When the King learned of these
sorrows, he forgave the Maharajah wholeheartedly, blotted out the memory of the insult, and
more than once I heard him refer to the Maharajah of Baroda as "that poor, unfortunate man"
in tones of sincere commiseration.

King George V, like his father, was extremely meticulous about the way in which orders and
decorations were worn, and, again like his father, had an extraordinarily keen eye for the
slightest mistake in their arrangement on anyone's chest.

He once remarked to me: "Some people are surprised that my father and I are so particular
about these things. But wouldn't it be peculiar if in ordinary society people turned up with
their shirts outside their trousers, their collars or their neckties on back to front, and the
buttons of their coats and waistcoats all wrong? Just as ordinary society has its rules for the
proper wearing of clothes, so a King and his Court must have their rules for the proper
wearing of unifoms, decorations and orders."

Once at some big Court function the late Maharajah of Rajpipla appeared in the King's
presence not wearing — as he should have worn — the collar of one of his decorations because
it caused him discomfort. The King was angry and showed that he was angry, but Queen
Mary made a quick, conciliatory gesture toward the unhappy young man, as if to say, "Don't
worry, it'll blow over." It did, and the King soon forgave him.

In connection with this same Maharajah of Rajpipla, I can give an example of King George
V's pertinacious and all-round interest in all sorts of matters. The Maharajah won the Derby
in 1934 with a horse called Windsor Lad. He had somehow delayed giving to his trainer the
present which it is customary for a winning owner to give to his trainer after the Derby. His
trainer was Mr. Marcus Marsh, the son of King George's former trainer. Weeks passed and
the Maharajah still gave no present. One afternoon I was at a solemn and imposing state
ceremony, where Ambassadors, Cabinet Ministers and exalted Court functionaries abounded.
The King caught sight of me in the august throng, took me quietly into a corner and told me
that he knew Marsh had not had his present.

"You were a great friend of his father's, weren't you?" he said earnestly, "and you know the
young man himself. Do please tackle him and make him see that this present is a normal
affair, and he's got to give it."

Naturally I did as the King asked, and the Maharajah belatedly sent Marsh his present. Nearly
twenty years afterward I told Marsh my side of the episode. Now, although Marsh was the
son of the King's trainer and quite often saw the King, he had never mentioned it to the King
but had told a friend of his about the Maharajah's curious absence of mind. The friend was a
general on the King's staff; he told the King and the King decided to use me as a gobetween.

During the thirty-four years that I knew him I saw a great deal of King George V, at his
home, at race meetings at Ascot and Epsom and elsewhere, and on his two visits to India as
Prince of Wales and as King.

On the former visit in 1905, which has set me off on this train of reminiscences, there was a
state ball in the Viceroy's House in Calcutta. The Prince of Wales took me into his room and
told me that he was fully in favor of the appointment of Indians to the Viceroy's Executive
Council and that he considered it most unfortunate that there were no Indians on it at the
moment. He said, "I have strongly urged both Lord Morley and Lord Minto that an Indian be
appointed."

He went on to talk to me at length about the Calcutta hospitals, to which his father had
referred a year before; he was not at all happy about them.

The Morley-Minto reforms (of which I shall have much to say a little later) were promulgated
in the following year. In private the Prince of Wales made no secret of the fact that he
regarded these reforms as necessary and right. Like Queen Victoria, he had a quick and real
sympathy for his Indian subjects, and he understood the real needs of India, above all, for a
vigorous, united drive against ignorance and poverty and the appallingly low standard of
living. During the Round Table Conferences he sent me more than one message urging me on

and encouraging me in my efforts to bring about a settlement of Hindu-Muslim differences in
order that we might then get on with the practical, economic and social reforms which were
so long overdue. One day after I had the honor of lunching with him at Ascot, he spoke to me
warmly along the same lines.

I remember that when the news leaked out from Berlin during the First World War that
Indian anarchists were being trained in Germany, the King was shocked and grieved at the
thought that the Kaiser could demean himself to countenance such underhanded and savage
tactics. In the same way his grief was profound but private at the dreadful murder of the
whole Russian Royal Family, his cousins, the Czar and Czarina and all their children, at
Ekaterinburg in 1918. He never made any public reference to it, but more than once in our
private talks he had no hesitation in opening his heart to me and telling me of his sorrow.

Sir Harold Nicolson, in his recently published biography of King George V, lays stress on the
fact that the King was always fully aware of the constitutional proprieties, and of his inability
to intervene in politics, however strong his private wishes or feelings might be. Sir Harold
gives a vivid account of the way in which, after he had aired his views — vigorously,
doubtless, and with singular pungency of phrase — he would make a gentle gesture, his right
hand passing across his body, and say with a resigned smile, "It's not for me to have opinions,
or to interfere." I so well remember that gesture and that smile. I have seen them so often, in
many an after-luncheon talk. The most industrious, diligent and hard-worked of men, King
George yet possessed the delightful faculty of collecting and remembering small personal
details about his friends' private lives. Some years before the First World War the Maharajah
of Gwalior was affianced to the Maharajah of Baroda's daughter (now the Maharani of Cooch
Behar). During the Delhi Durbar of 1912 she broke off the engagement. Outwardly the
Maharajah of Gwalior took his disappointment bravely, but inwardly he was greatly
distressed. The King heard about it. He knew that Gwalior and I were close friends. At one of
the state functions he sent for me, told me how grieved he was for Gwalior, and asked me to
do all I could to ease matters.

As I have said, I knew Queen Mary even before I met her husband. For well over fifty years I
was proud and glad to be counted among her friends. In 1952 — less than a year before she
died — I had two affectionate personal messages from her; the first, a telegram of
congratulations after my horse Tulyar won the Derby, and with it a solicitous inquiry about
my health, for she knew that I had been gravely ill and was glad to hear that I was on the
mend; and the other (the last message I ever had from her) was when the same horse, Tulyar,
won the King George and Queen Eli z abeth Cup at Ascot, and she got an equerry to convey
her congratulations and her regards to me.

She was a staunch, invaluable support to King George; a truly great English lady, she seemed
to me to mingle in herself all the best qualities of royalty in the constitutional pattern, of
wifely, maternal, domestic excellence, and of sturdy middle-class realism.

One of the most touching — in a way, one of the most painful — experiences of my life was a
conversation which I had with Queen Mary shortly before King Edward Yin's abdication. I

had just had a long audience with King Edward VIII, having returned to London from
Geneva after one of the interminable conferences of the League of Nations, and in this
audience I made my report to the King. I spoke fervently and sincerely to Queen Mary of my
great admiration for King Edward, for his clarity of view, for his realism, and, above all, for
his full appreciation of the dangers of the coming war. I could see that she was immensely
proud of her son, yet I could see too that she was holding back tears — tears which were an
indication of her awareness of the sorrow that impended for the Royal Lamily. No open hint
did she give of it, and no reference could I make, or would I have made, to it. Having come
from abroad I had had no sense of how near and how great was King Edward's danger.
Realization in that sad silence was all the more shocking. In all that we did not say, in the
quiet of her drawing room, there was a profound and tragic apprehension, a sense of the
clouds massing for the terrible storm that was to burst around her and around those she dearly
loved.

In the summer of 1906 I was again in England. There had been a General Election since my
last visit, the Conservatives had been heavily defeated, and the Liberals were in power with a
record majority and a Government under the Premiership of Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman.
Assembled in the Cabinet room and on the Front Bench was a galaxy of brilliant and able
men, unequaled in recent British history: Asquith, Grey, Haldane, Lloyd George, John
Morley, Herbert Samuel, and Winston Churchill, to name only a few of that memorable
Administration. Morley — Gladstone's intimate friend, Cabinet colleague and biographer, the
possessor of one of the most powerful, constructive intellects of his day — held what was to
me and my political associates the supremely important post of Secretary of State for India.
Soon his name was to be associated with that of the Viceroy, the Earl of Minto, a Scottish
nobleman of Liberal outlook, sagacity and equability, in the Morley-Minto reforms, which
marked so momentous an advance in India's journey to political emancipation. Asquith was
Chancellor of the Exchequer, Lloyd George was president of the Board of Trade; and
Winston Churchill, then just turned thirty, and a recent recruit from the other side of the
House, held at first a minor ministerial post but was soon to rocket into prominence.

I have had the privilege and pleasure of Sir Winston Churchill's friendship for over half a
century. As I recall, it was at Poona in the late summer of 1896 that our paths first crossed. A
group of officers of a British cavalry regiment, the Fourth Hussars, then stationed at
Bangalore, called on me. I was ill at the time and did not meet them, but my cousin
Shamsuddin entertained them and showed them my race horses. When he later told me of
their visit he said that among the officers none had a keener, more discriminating eye, none
was a better judge of a horse, than a young subaltern by the name of Winston Spencer
Churchill. My cousin described him as perhaps a little over twenty, boyish-looking, eager,
irrepressible, and already an enthusiastic, courageous and promising polo player.

It is impossible to think of the young Winston Churchill without recalling his mother, the
brilliant and much-loved Lady Randolph Churchill. Her beauty, her grace and her wit have
now a legendary quality. The wife of one famous man, the mother of another, she herself was
a woman of the utmost distinction.

From many recollections of Lady Randolph, on many occasions and in many places, I choose
one saying of hers that seems to me especially typical of the felicity and the pointedness of
her wit. One day at Aix-les-Bains, Sir Rufus Isaacs (later the first Marquis of Reading)
observed, about some particular action of which he disapproved, "No man would respect a
woman who would do that."

"No woman," said Lady Randolph gently, "wants to be respected."

In later life our paths were destined to cross again and again. We met in the summer of 1902,
King Edward VII's Coronation Year, at Warwick Castle as guests of Lord and Lady Warwick
over a long week end. In six years the ebullient cavalry subaltern had traveled far and
achieved much; wherever there had been fighting he had contrived to be, regardless of the
views of senior officers -Malakand, about which he wrote the first of his many books,
Kitchener's "River War" along the upper reaches of the Nile, the cavalry charge at
Omdurman; as a war correspondent in South Africa he had been taken prisoner, escaped and
had had a price put on his head by Kruger; and by 1902 he was Conservative member of
Parliament for Oldman. At Warwick that week end he was in a holiday mood. He and I
involved ourselves in a vigorous argument about the comparative merits, in sheer sporting
quality, of polo and hunting. He was firmly for polo; I who had followed hounds from
boyhood was as stubbornly for hunting. But I recall another conversation that same summer
week end which was less lighthearted. He, with his imperialist traditions and outlook,
reverted — as so many politically minded Englishman had to in those days — to the question
of Ireland; he echoed something that Lord Spencer had said to me some years earlier:
"Twenty years of firm government is no solution of the Irish problem.

"So long as the people of Ireland are dissatisfied," continued the young Tory M.P, the
nominal supporter of Arthur Balfour, "there can be no solution. Only when the Irish people
are politically satisfied will we be able to solve the Irish problem."

As young men will, we talked a great deal about a great many subjects. Churchill, whose
verbal memory is one of his many remarkable characteristics, quoted freely from Fitzgerald's
translation of Omar Khayyam. He assured me that he knew virtually the whole poem by
heart. I remember being genuinely surprised by the enthusiasm which he displayed, for to
those of us whose mother tongue is Persian, Omar Khayyam seems a minor poet with a very
limited outlook. I tackled Churchill along those lines, and he countered me by saying that
what he admired in Omar Khayyam was not his philosophy but his poetic power. Then
suddenly he made a dialectical volte-face and said: "You know, there's a great deal in his
philosophy. After all, it doesn't greatly matter what we do now — it'll be all the same in a
hundred years."

I took strong exception to this flippant observation.

"What you do now," I said, "may be of little account a thousand years from now. But
certainly events a hundred years hence will very much be the direct results of our present
deeds and misdeeds."

As I remember, he came round into agreement with me. Now a good deal older, and with a
good deal more experience behind me, I think that I would argue that events a thousand years
hence can be strongly affected by what we do now — or leave undone.

Think of my own august ancestor, Mohammed the Prophet of Islam. If Mohammed had been
killed in his first encounter with his enemies, Islam would never have arisen; Arabia might
have been the home of a number of minor Christian sects; the Middle East would have been
Christian instead of predominantly Muslim; and that part of the Indian subcontinent which
became Muslim might have been converted to some version of Christianity. I go further: if
after our Holy Prophet's Ascension into Heaven the succession had gone to the Ansar of
Medina — a kindly, steadfast clan of yeomen, content to live on and work by the land —
instead of to the Prophet's own tribe, the Quraish of Mecca — internationally minded, virile,
reckless folk with a lust for travel and adventure, who journeyed to Constantinople and
Alexandria, to Rome even, to Iran and by sea to India in search of trade — then Islam would
have taken a totally different turn. Under the leadership of the Ansar of Medina it would have
been today — if indeed it still survived — one of many minor, little-known Eastern sects.

It needed the imagination, the international experience of the trade-conscious Quraish, the
citizens of Mecca, to have made Islam a world religion whose call was spread abroad to all
mankind.

In our own time too, there are many examples of decisions -political and otherwise — whose
influence stretches far beyond the immediate present into a distant future. If in 1871
Bismarck had left Alsace and Lorraine out of the peace terms which he imposed on France in
his hour of victory, would there ever have been the cry of "Revanche, revanche!" which
echoed fiercely down the years afterward? The Franco-Prussian War might have slipped into
oblivion with the other vainglorious follies of the Second Empire; and that United Europe,
which is the eager hope and desire of us all today, would have come to pass without the bitter
experience of two world wars. Even after the First World War had the Western Powers
hearkened to the advice of men like Lord D'Abernon during the early, critical years of the
Weimar Republic, we might never have heard of Adolf Hitler; the old League of Nations
which had many good points - not least of which was its rapid acceptance of Stresemann's
Germany into full membership — would have gone a long way to heal the wounds of the First
World War. But there were other less enlightened counselors to whom the peoples of
Western Europe listened, and in the succeeding years nothing was left undone to show the
German people that there was one way in which they could get what they wanted, and that
was by power politics.

Ah, well, the two young men who sat talking so ardently at Warwick Castle long ago had
much to learn; and, if I may say so, one of Sir Winston Churchill's outstanding characteristics
— perhaps the most valuable of all to him in his career as a statesman — has been his capacity
to learn by experience and, having learned, to wipe the slate clean.

In 1906, four years after our memorable encounter at Warwick Castle, he was a junior
Minister in Campbell-Bannerman's Liberal Government, and I remember that John Morley,

his senior Cabinet colleague, said to me, "The young Churchill, like the young Joseph
Chamberlain that I knew, possesses the greatest natural political sense. There is in Churchill
the same innate and natural readiness to tackle and solve problems as they arise that there was
in Joe."

Sir Winston Churchill unites and blends in his strong personality two usually conflicting
strands: the romantic, the deeply emotional and poetic interpreter of history and the common
sense, practical, down-to-earth realist, the hardheaded and coolly calculating strategist. It is
an irresistible, at times a majestic, combination.

And he accepted the fact that India was to remain in the Commonwealth on her own terms
and as a republic. As he himself has said to me, "Half a loaf is better than none."

His whole relationship with the problem of India is a manifestation on the highest political
plane of these two interlinked facets of Churchill's character. Part of his being responds with
instantaneous romanticism to a highly colored conception of Empire, to the Union Jack
unfurled to the breeze in some distant outpost, to the vigilant picket-keeping guard in the
desolate Khyber, to all the trumpet calls of more than a century of British Imperial history.
But in another part of his being he is capable of resolute practicality and common sense, solid
and realistic yet magnanimous. It is this latter facet which has predominated since 1947; he
has cheerfully accepted a political fact for what it is, and has striven — with a good deal of
success — to make the best of a quite new situation.

I would have wished, though, that his connection with India (after his brief period of
soldiering there was over) had been closer, and his responsibility for decisions on Indian
matters more immediate, at some time or another in his career.

I saw a good deal of him during the First World War, and we often discussed politics. Not
long after the end of the war, when Lord Chelmsford's term as Viceroy was ending and
before the appointment of Lord Reading, Lloyd George asked two of us, myself and an
intimate friend of mine, Mr. Bassou, a member of the Council of India, to come and see him
on the matter of a successor. I suggested to Mr. Lloyd George, on behalf of the pair of us, two
candidates for this great post: Lord Derby and Winston Churchill. He did not turn down
either of them outright. He then turned to Mr. Bassou. Mr. Bassou's suggestions of course
coincided with mine. To me Lloyd George had made no comment on either name. With Mr.
Bassou, as with me, he passed over Lord Derby's name in silence. Then he turned round
sharply and said to Mr. Bassou, "Do you know Churchill?"

Mr. Bassou admitted that he had not the pleasure of Mr. Churchill's personal acquaintance.

"I know Churchill," said Lloyd George with finality.

Looking back, and with the knowledge of all the great positions under the Crown which Sir
Winston Churchill has occupied with such luster, I still think that it was a pity Lloyd George
did not accede to our joint suggestion. If Churchill had had direct and recent Indian
experience, his whole outlook at the time of the Indian Round Table Conference from 1930
on, and his speeches in the Parliamentary debates leading up to the passing of the

Government of India Act in 1935, would, I am certain, have been different. And the effect of
that changed outlook would have been felt throughout the whole later history of Anglo-Indian
relations. I go further; I believe that with the direct knowledge of India which he would have
acquired as Viceroy, he might have found other and far less terrible means of bringing about
the downfall of Hitler and the saving of Germany for Western civilization.

Every time that I have discussed political matters with Sir Winston, I have been impressed
anew by the extraordinarily practical realism of his outlook. He is never the slave of his past
ideas, his desires or his dreams; he is their master.

During the First World War, when so many British statesmen were anxious to save Turkey
from the doom which seemed bound to engulf her, I remember Churchill's telling me
brusquely that Turkey would be the victor's prize. Turkey, he said, was the sick man of
Europe, dying and degenerate, whom it was no use trying to save.

Who in the Second World War and since has been a warmer admirer, a more staunch
supporter and friend of modern Turkey than Winston Churchill? He has come round to a firm
belief in the vitality and stubborn strength of the contemporary Turkish character, nurtured in
the Anatolian Highlands, and to a genuine admiration for the vigor of Turkey's revival under
Kemal Ataturk — a revival like that of the phoenix out of the ashes of the Ottoman Empire,
whose disasters were the result of the blind and foolish policy of her leaders.

So far as India is concerned, the evolution in Churchill's outlook is even more startling. I
remember his attitude at the time of the Round Table Conference, the whole tone in which he
addressed us, and his determined opposition to the very idea of Dominion status. Yet this was
the Churchill who in 1942 sent Sir Stafford Cripps to India with a directive which could only
lead in the end to complete independence and to the emergence of the Indian Republic. And
when the severance was finally accomplished, when the highest jewel in the British Crown
was no more, when the last British soldier and the last British administrator had left Indian
soil, Churchill's acceptance of the fact of Indian independence was made sincerely and with
good grace.

Churchill, as leader of the Conservative party, faced with equanimity the momentous
sequence of events which brought about Indian independence, the partition of the
subcontinent into the two new and sovereign states of Bharat and Pakistan, and the division
of the Indian Army.

As I look back down the long vista of the years that I have known Sir Winston, I am sure that
the greatest blessing God has given him has been his health. He has a constitution of iron, and
all his life he has taxed it to the uttermost. He has disregarded all the do's and don't's which
doctors impose. He has worked unceasingly; he has played hard, he has excelled in countless
activities from polo to painting, and have I ever seen him refuse any good dish put in front of
him, or a liqueur glass of brandy, or a cigar? This gusto and this vitality have been sustained
by his magnificent constitution. The young subaltern who came to look at my horses had it,
and the veteran statesman, honored and revered by the whole civilized world, has it.

The electoral change in England in that crucial year 1906 had its effect on India. While I was
in England that summer my friends in India wrote and told me that at last the Government
was beginning to realize that there was something called a Muslim problem in India and that
they could no longer dismiss it as an idle fabrication.

Since 1857 and the transference of authority in India from the East India Company to the
Crown, the Muslims had, in a political sense, been more or less ignored by the British.
Perhaps not unnaturally the new rulers of India turned away from those who, by religion and
by language, were connected with the rulers who had been ousted. Muslims were not brought
into the administration or into politics; few studied or read English. If the end of the Moghul
emperors was pitiable, its effects lingered on for two generations in the sense of isolation and
powerlessness which enveloped the Muslims of India in their own land. The Hindu majority
were in an advantageous position under their new rulers; and they made full use of it. The
Muslims had been for long what the French call "quantite negligeable," but at long last we
were going to be heard. The Viceroy, Lord Minto, had agreed to receive a deputation from us
and I was to lead that deputation.

We were acutely aware that we had long been neglected, that to the Hindu majority — as
represented by its leaders in the Congress party — we seemed a tiresome splinter in the flesh
of the body politic, and that though there was great talk of nationalism, we were not ever
considered in the aspirations that were being fostered, the plans that were being laid. They
continued to send to the Viceroy's Legislative Council third-rate yes-men instead of truly
representative Muslims, with the result that our separate identity as a community and the
status that would have appertained to it had been forgotten by the British.

Now we decided that the time had come to make a stand for a change in attitude. If
constitutional advancements were to be mooted, we must have our say in their disposition.
Reform was in the air, but it must be understood — in the utterly different political
atmosphere of more than forty years later — that it was reform within extremely limited terms
of reference. British supremacy in India, administrative and legislative, was to remain
uninfringed, unaltered. In the Morley-Minto reforms, as they came to be known, and in the
Indian Councils Act of 1907 in which they were embodied, there was no hint of a process of
evolution toward ultimate Indian self-government, no hint of transference of power from
British to Indian hands. John Morley himself said, "A fur coat may be all very well in
Canada, but no use at all in India" — the political and constitutional evolution which had been
Canada's experience was thus by implication rejected for India (though not, of course, by
India). All that the Morley-Minto proposals were intended to achieve, and did achieve, was a
modest devolution in communal and local matters and the admittance of Indians, on a rigidly
restricted basis, to consultation — though not to decision — about their own affairs.

Within these limits, however, they were an advance, and from the Muslim point of view they
were especially significant. Our experience from the time of the Cross-Lansdowne reforms in
1892 had pointed the way; there was no hope of a fair deal for us within the fold of the
Congress party or in alliance with it. Now in 1906 we boldly asked the Viceroy to look facts
in the face; we asked that the Muslims of India should be regarded not as a mere minority,

but as a nation within a nation whose rights and obligations should be guaranteed by statute.
History has amply demonstrated since then, after the First World War and again and again
later, that the existence of minorities — of one nationally conscious community within
another, numerically weaker perhaps but not less firmly aware of itself as a nation than the
majority — is one of the major issues of our time. Ireland, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Jugoslavia
— the world's maps are plentifully dotted with these minority problems, with all their
complexity and difficulty.

For ourselves in 1906 we asked for the establishment of a principle, a principle which would
have to be embodied in any legislation as a consequence of these proposals for reform. We
asked for adequate and separate representation for Muslims both on local bodies and on the
legislative councils, we asked that this representation be secured by a separate communal
franchise and electoral roll. In short, we Muslims should have the right of electing our own
representatives on it. We conceded that in areas where we were in the majority, like the
Punjab and what was then the Province of Eastern Bengal, we would give a certain number of
extra seats to the Hindus, in order to safeguard their interests, but in return we asked that in
areas in which there was a big Hindu majority we likewise should be conceded a certain
number of extra seats.

Lord Minto listened with sympathy to the statement of our case. He assured us that the
political rights and interests of the Muslim community would be safeguarded in any change
in administration that might occur. Our principle was accepted. Most of our demands in detail
were conceded, though not all. It would, in my view, have been better had there been
provision for two Indian members of the Viceroy's Executive Council — one Muslim and one
Hindu — instead of the one finally provided for. But after all, it was John Morley himself who
said to me when I raised this point, "You mustn't get too much power, you know."

It is perhaps unnecessary to stress the irony of history's comment on that observation. But
within their own time, the Morley-Minto reforms were a genuine step forward. We had had
established a major political principle; its application was henceforward to be a permanent
feature of all constitutional developments in India. It was not conceded however without
opposition. And if in retrospect there is an element of irony about Lord Morley's remark
which I have just quoted, there is a much more freakishly ironic flavor about the name and
personality of the chief Muslim opponent of the stand which we took. For Lord Minto's
acceptance of our demands was the foundation of all future constitutional proposals made for
India by successive British Governments, and its final, inevitable consequence was the
partition of India and the emergence of Pakistan.

Who then was our doughtiest opponent in 1906? A distinguished Muslim barrister in
Bombay, with a large and prosperous practice, Mr. Mohammed All Jinnah. We first became
acquainted when he, having been called to the English Bar, settled in Bombay and — entirely
without private fortune and without influence — rapidly built up his successful practice there.
We had always been on friendly terms, but at this juncture he came out in bitter hostility
toward all that I and my friends had done and were trying to do. He was the only well-known
Muslim to take this attitude, but his opposition had nothing mealy-mouthed about it; he said

that our principle of separate electorates was dividing the nation against itself, and for nearly
a quarter of a century he remained our most inflexible critic and opponent. In a later chapter I
shall discuss more fully the circumstances — most of all the stubborn folly and intransigence
of the Hindu majority in Congress — which converted this stoutest champion of Indian unity
into its most determined opponent; and I shall trace in detail the paths of destiny which
brought him, as the unchallenged leader of eighty million Muslims, that victory — the
creation of the separate and independent State of Pakistan — for which we at the beginning
were working unconsciously and indirectly, and he at the end consciously and directly and
with all the force of his will and intellect. For the moment I merely reflect upon the irony
implicit in it all.

Our achievement in 1906 seemed important enough; and it was obvious to those of us most
closely associated with it — especially Nawab Mohsen-ul-Molk and myself — that since we
had obtained separate electoral recognition, we must have the political organization to make
that separate representation effective. The All-India Muslim League was therefore founded at
a meeting at Dacca later that year at which, as it happened, I was unable to be present. I was,
however, elected its first President, and as such I remained until 1912.

All these events — our deputation to the Viceroy, his acceptance of our demands, the
subsequent foundation of the All-India Muslim League and my election as its President —
marked for me the culmination of a period of concentrated political effort. The strain had
shown itself physically and during our visit to Simla to see the Viceroy, I fainted. I needed
physical recuperation and I thought that I would combine this with widening my experience
and knowledge. I set out on a world tour in the company of a French friend of mine,

Monsieur Rene Talomon, who subsequently became a professor of French literature in the
United States, and who died recently. We headed east, going first to Malaya and Singapore
and then on to China.

China's condition at that time was saddening. In Peking the aged Dowager-Empress dwelt in
seclusion within the vast confines of the summer palace; beyond its walls her Empire was
crumbling in confusion and decay. In towns along the seaboard and far up the great navigable
rivers that were the arteries of China's lifeblood, foreign — European — trading communities
had established an elaborate system of treaty ports and concessions. Here on the territory of a
country which was in no sense a colony of any of the European nations involved, it was
astonishing, and disquieting, to see that the most arrogant and hidebound kind of colonialism
prevailed. The foreign concessions in towns like Shanghai, Hankow and others were alien
cities and strongholds of power, political and financial. It was indeed merely a matter of
extraterritorial foreign administration within the various concessions and settlements; the
power and prestige of the foreigner was so great, and the authority of the Manchu
Government so feeble, that the real rulers of China in those days were the consuls of the
European Powers, chief among them the British Consul General in Shanghai. In the
disintegration from which China's administration was suffering, wealthy Chinese brought
their money and their investments into the foreign settlements for safety and protection — just
as today many Europeans send their capital to the United States and Canada.

The atmosphere of colonialism was as nauseating as it was allpervasive. In the P & O ship in
which I traveled from Hong Kong to Shanghai, one of my fellow passengers was the Imperial
Viceroy of the Province of Yunnan — a personage, one would have supposed, of some
consequence in his own country. When we reached Shanghai I was genuinely astonished, and
a good deal shocked, to see the way in which the officials of the so-called Chinese Imperial
Maritime Customs — after all, they were nominally the servants of the Chinese Government -
- treated this dignitary, compared with their attitude toward the British passengers, myself
and even my Indian servants.

For us there was every mark of consideration and courtesy. He was dealt with brusquely and
rudely, all his baggage was opened, and the customs officials ruffled busily through his robes
and his mandarin orders. It was a nastily enlightening comparison which I have never
forgotten.

Within the foreign settlements the general attitude toward the Chinese was little short of
outrageous. All the better hotels refused entry to Chinese, except in wings specially set aside
for them. It was the same in restaurants. From European clubs they were totally excluded.
Even in shops a Chinese customer would have to stand aside and wait to be served when a
European or an American came in after him and demanded attention. We hear a great deal
about the color bar in South Africa today. In the early years of this century in China the color
bar was rigidly imposed — not least offensively in discrimination against officials of the very
government whose guests, under international law, all foreigners were supposed to be. Is it
any wonder that the Chinese intelligentsia long retained bitter memories of this attitude?

The old mandarin class, of course, did not travel and knew little of the world outside China,
but already, even in 1906, there were a number of Chinese students attending universities in
the United States and then returning home. Their bitterness was probably sharper and deeper
than the cool, self-isolating disdain which was the natural reaction of the mandarin class.

In Shanghai Talomon and I were entertained at dinner — Chinese style — by some wealthy
Chinese merchants to whom we had letters of introduction from a Chinese friend in
Singapore.

We had the usual chicken dishes and something which they called tartar grilled meat, which
was really a kebab similar to that which is eaten in Persia, Turkey, Egypt and all the Middle
Eastern countries, and even in the Caucasus. When we remarked that it was a well-known
dish in a large part of the world and a part with which I particularly was familiar, our hosts
said, "Yes, it has been prepared for us by a Chinese Muslim cook." There followed the
classical Chinese dishes, such as bamboo shoots and buried eggs. And then we were offered a
dish which at first we thought was eel.

Luckily — oh, how luckily! — Talomon said, "We know this very well."

Our host laughed in courteous deprecation of Talomon's little mistake. "Oh, no," he said,

"this is snake."

There is a limit, and for us this went beyond it. Under the cover of our napkins, and with what
we hoped was the greatest care so that we should not be seen, we got rid of it. I remember,
long years later, reading a newspaper account of the effect of a similar dish on some
foreigners at a Chinese official dinner. All were very ill and some died.

Students of sociology may be interested in the existence in those days, both in Shanghai and
Hong Kong, of what were called "welcome houses," maintained by small groups of American
women. There was not a hint of coarseness or vulgarity about these establishments; they were
enveloped in an almost oppressive atmosphere of decorum. The first impression on any
novice who walked into one of them for the first time was that he had entered an agreeable
but fairly strait-laced social gathering. Only Europeans and Americans of impeccable social
background were admitted. The women who ran them — many of whom were known to be
well-to-do, several indeed owning race horses in Shanghai — were regarded with a proper
degree of respect. They resembled, shall I say, the Greek hetaera rather than the fashionable
lady of the European demimonde of that time. Most of the women were of Scandinavian
origin and had come, I believe, from the vicinity of Minnesota where there is a considerable
degree of Scandinavian settlement. The current theory in the Far East was that they came
thither with one set purpose: to accumulate a dowry which their families could not afford to
give them and that having in a few years piled up quite sizable fortunes, home they went to
be absorbed into a respectable and blameless family life.

Talomon and I went on to Japan. Since the world picture has changed so irrevocably in the
years since then, it may perhaps be necessary to recall two important facts in connection with
Japan in 1906: first, that Britain and Japan were allies, under the terms of an agreement
signed early in the century and, second, that Japan had just emerged victorious from the
Russo-Japanese War, the first in modem times in which an Asiatic Power had taken on and
soundly defeated a European Great Power in a combat on modem terms and with modem
arms and equipment. The Foreign Minister, Count Hayashi, who had been Ambassador in
London at the time of the signature of the Treaty of Anglo- Japanese alliance, gave a big
luncheon in my honor. During the course of the meal he and I discussed the Anglo- Japanese
alliance; and Count Hayashi, whom I had known quite well in London, assured me that
influential military circles in Japan had been opposed to the idea of an alliance with Britain
and had advocated an alliance with Russia. Simultaneous negotiations had in fact been
conducted, and the Russian plan failed only because Russia's acceptance of the terms
proposed arrived after the treaty with Britain had been initialed. It is interesting and a little
awe-inspiring to speculate on how different the history of our century would have been had
the Czar's Government moved more speedily. There would have been no Russo-Japanese
War to weaken — as it in fact did irreparably — the Czarist regime; might not Lenin have
remained an obscure agitator in permanent exile?

Among Japanese leaders whom I met was Field Marshal Oyama. I remember being struck by
his modesty of demeanor, absence of self-satisfaction and lack of any display of power, and I
remember thinking — for, after all, he was one of the men who had just led their country to
victory in the war against Russia — that his bearing was very different from that which a
European or American military leader would have adopted in a like situation. Friends told me

that the bearing of Admiral Togo, the victorious commander in the great naval battle of
Tsushima, was very similar to that of the Field Marshal.

I was fortunate enough to be granted an audience with the old Emperor, the great Mikado of
Japan's revolution, the Emperor during whose reign Japan had stepped at one bound from a
medieval way of life to a modern industrial and military power able to challenge the West in
its own terms. As a boy before the Revolution, although he was the Mikado, he had been kept
in Kyoto by the Shogun in obscurity and something near poverty, rationed daily to a small
issue of rice by those who were supposed to be his servants. He threw off this overweening
tyranny — with tremendous results. What surprised me was that he was a tall, powerful,
robust man; he would have been thought a big man anywhere, but in Tokyo his size seemed
much more conspicuous. My audience with him was a noisy affair. He talked at the top of his
powerful voice, shouting questions at me and shouting back his answering comments. When
he wasn't shouting he was uttering loud, explosive exclamations. The courtier who acted as
interpreter told me afterward that these exclamations indicated that the Emperor approved of
my answers to his questions.

We took a Japanese boat across the Pacific and called at Honolulu. People who know
Honolulu nowadays can have no idea of what it was like then — its charm and its quiet air of
absolute peace and happiness. There were no trans-Pacific clippers bringing holidaymakers
overnight from the United States. It had not been discovered and exploited by the cinema; its
romance was genuine. There was no tourist industry, and there were no vast naval and air
bases.

All the young women of the island went about garlanded, and whenever we were introduced
to any of them they took off their garlands — so gay and beautiful were their smiles, so
graceful and delicate the movements and touch of their hands — and put them round our
necks. Talomon and I were still young and impressionable; we were both pleased and
gratified by this courteous custom.

On we went toward the United States and reached San Francisco in December, 1906, in the
aftermath of the earthquake. The whole city was one vast ruin. People talk of the material
havoc of war in France and in Germany, and I myself have seen, at the conclusion of two
world wars, many cities and towns in ruins, but San Francisco in 1906 exceeded anything I
have ever seen. It was difficult to find a shop open, but we chanced on a drugstore; it was a
curious experience — amid all this devastation — to be served with ice cream and cold drinks
in what elsewhere in the world we call a chemist's shop. One or two hotels and restaurants
were open, but in general life and work were only just beginning again in that terrible and
pitiable havoc.

From California we crossed the continent by train, stopping off from time to time and staying
a day or two in various cities on the way. In Chicago we were taken on a conducted tour of
the stockyards and slaughter houses. Not long before this, Upton Sinclair's propagandist
novel about the slaughter houses had been published and caused a considerable sensation. I

must say the conditions in the slaughter houses which I was shown bore no similarity to the
lurid horrors described in the novel.

Perhaps I ought to point out that such knowledge of America as I then possessed was not
derived from novels. I had read Lord Bryce's classic work on the American Constitution, I
knew the writings of authors as diverse as Walt Whitman, Hawthorne, Thoreau, Henry and
William James and Mark Twain (whom, as I have recorded, I had met in Bombay). I had
many American friends and acquaintances in Europe. Like all visitors to the United States I
suppose I had my preconceived notions, but they were founded on some real, if academic,
knowledge of the structure of American social, economic and political life.

Just after the New Year of 1907 we reached New York. It was the height of the city's winter
season. Talomon and I went to stay at the St. Regis; forty years later it was the habit of my
younger son, Sadruddin, when he was a Harvard undergraduate, to stay there whenever he
was in New York.

From all that my friends tell me, there is no comparison between the social life of New York
as it was in those days and the swift, swirling existence of the city today. Of course I had
many introductions, largely from my American friends in Europe, and I was immediately and
generously entertained. Americans are the most hospitable people in the world, and they
receive foreigners with so much kindness, their welcome is so open and so goodhearted, that
anyone who has once been to the United States never forgets his time there. I seemed to be
invited out to luncheon and dinner every day, and night after night I was someone's guest at
the opera. The Metropolitan Opera House in those days was like a superb exhibition of
jewelry and fashion. I knew the Opera in Paris and London, but for elegance and opulence
among the audience neither was comparable with New York's Metropolitan in the early years
of this century.

One New Yorker of some consequence to whom I had an introduction was the then District
Attorney, Mr. Jerome, Lady Randolph Churchill's cousin. He was kind enough to arrange for
me a special pass which enabled me to watch one of the most interesting and sensational
causes celebres of the time. This was the trial of Harry K. Thaw, accused of the murder of
Stanford White, the architect and designer of skyscrapers.

At his trial Thaw was found guilty but insane and thus escaped execution. It seemed that Mrs.
Thaw had confessed to her husband that before her marriage she had been taken by Stanford
White to his apartment, given drugged champagne, and seduced. This confession aroused
Thaw to maniacal jealousy, all the more ferocious because he suspected (groundlessly) that
White was still pursuing his wife. In the ballroom of Madison Square Roof Garden White
was waltzing with a girl friend when Harry Thaw strode across the floor and fired six shots
into his body.

I was especially interested in this melodramatic and colorful affair, for two years before I had
met Thaw and the former Evelyn Nesbit together in Paris. Thaw, whose fortune was derived
from railroads, cut something of a figure in international society at that time. He had,
however, an uncontrollable temper and was an extremely jealous and possessive individual. I

met them once at dinner and later on that evening I was talking pleasantly and lightheartedly
with the young woman, who was extremely beautiful and attractive. Thaw in the background
looked grim and preoccupied, and a friend who was in the party quietly warned me that there
was a dangerous streak in Thaw.

There was a grim but bewildering fascination about the trial. I had grown up accustomed to
British methods in a court of justice; the whole system of questioning and cross-examination
and all the rules of evidence in an American court were startlingly different. It took me a little
time to realize that, although the basis of the criminal law is the same in the United States as
in England, it has developed along different lines since the eighteenth century and the
American legal profession has evolved its own technique and traditions.

By 1907 the motorcar was coming into its own and was no longer the despised and smelly
toy it had been a decade earlier, New York was still a city of fine carriages and glossy and
well-groomed horses, and the taxi had not yet replaced the elegant hansom cab. How affable
and good-tempered American people of all classes were in those days. The clerks and the
assistants in the shops and stores seemed friendly and alert, never giving one those sour,
disapproving looks that one got in shops in Europe. The policemen on the beat, the New York
cops, were genial and talkative when you asked them the way, not curt like the Paris
gendarme or aloof and majestic like the old-fashioned London bobby.

I realize that I was extremely fortunate both in the time of this my single visit to New York
and in the social world — now almost entirely vanished — to which I had the entree. I met the
great hostesses and leaders of society of those days: Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt, Mrs. John
Jacob Astor, Mrs. Whitelaw Reid, Mrs. Phipps, Mrs. Ogden Mills and others. How kind and
hospitable they were, how stately were the parties and the dances they gave — more than one,

I may add, in my honor.

I spent a good deal of time in the museums, as I always do in any city that I visit for the first
time. Many of the wealthier private houses, of course, were museums and art galleries in their
own right. It was curious, I remember remarking, that although in Europe the heyday of the
French impressionists had dawned and connoisseurs were already beginning to collect their
work, American taste remained still classical and traditional, and the walls of many of the big
houses that I visited were hung with examples of English, Italian, German, Flemish and
Dutch painting of many epochs.

I was made an honorary member of the Union Club. I discovered the joys of native American
cooking; surely canvasback duck and terrapin are two of the best dishes in the world. I went
to the theater a great deal, and here "modernism" — as it was then understood — had certainly
hit New York. Ibsen was the rage, and several of his plays were being performed at theaters
around the town. But it was also, of course, the day of the musical comedy, before it had been
displaced by other noisier, more synthetic forms of amusement.

It was a time of great expansion and prosperity for New York and for America generally, an
outward and visible sign of which was the rising skyline of New York. We talked about

skyscrapers then, but they were modest little affairs of twenty or thirty floors — still, they
seemed to us gigantic.

Altogether I had a wonderful time in New York. I have never forgotten it. I only wish that I
had been able to go back again. That this has never proved possible has been my misfortune
and, I may say, a cause of great and lasting regret.

My tour had set me up in health and in spirits. The year 1907 saw the Morley-Minto
constitutional reforms in India turned from tentative proposals, whose shape and pattern we
had been able effectively to influence, into law. John Morley, with his liberal background and
outlook of the purest theoretical and academic kind, was extremely reluctant to accept the
principle of separate electoral representation for the Muslims. It went against the grain of his
character. However, the Viceroy, Lord Minto, had given his assent to the undertaking, and
Morley — however scrupulous his theoretical objections — could not be permitted to go back
on it. For Syed Amir Ali and myself, 1907 was a period of what I can best describe as
guerrilla warfare, whose aim was to keep up to the mark. We won in the end, but it was hard
going.

In my personal life I was able to effect radical and permanent adjustments. Any hope of
reconciliation with my wife, Shahzadi Begum, had unhappily but finally receded; we agreed
to a deed of separation and, not long afterward, to a divorce under Muslim law. While of
course I remained responsible for her maintenance until her death, she passed completely out
of my life and we never met again.

From 1907 I visited Europe every year. My life moved in an agreeable and spacious round.

As a shy, raw young man on my first visit to Europe in 1898, 1 had lost my heart to the
French Riviera. Now in my maturity my affection for it had deepened and ripened, and I
found myself returning to it again and again. In 1908 this affection found a personal focus. I
made the acquaintance of Mile. Theresa Magliano, one of the most promising young dancers
of the Ballet Opera of Monte Carlo, a ballerina who — in the opinion of the teachers of both
the Paris Opera and of La Scala in Milan — was assured of a brilliant future in her profession.
She was then just nineteen. We fell deeply in love. In the spring of that year she accompanied
me to Egypt and we were married in Cairo in accordance with Muslim law.

My new marriage brought me spiritual and mental satisfaction and enrichment. It also opened
for me a path into a new and absorbing world. My young wife's nature was intensely
aesthetic. She was a truly creative artist. Although inevitably she gave up the stage after our
marriage, she turned to a serious study first of painting and later of sculpture. It was here that
her talents flowered. She took the professional name of Yla. Her work was exhibited on the
Continent and in England.

Before she died in 1926, at the tragically early age of thirtyseven, my wife had attained
recognition as a sculptor of merit and high artistic capacity. She had been asked to design a
number of war memorials in England and France and also a number of those monuments to
Unknown Soldiers which so poignantly expressed the emotions of the interwar years. The last
commission which she was offered gave her especial satisfaction; it was from the city of

Vienna, obtained in open competition with a strong candidature of more than a hundred, to
design a fountain in which statuary was an important part of the decorative scheme.

My wife's aesthetic interests and tastes encouraged me to explore the world of art for myself.

My own first loves in the world of aesthetic experience were always music and the ballet. My
reactions to music and to dancing have been emotional and sensuous. I have a vivid
recollection of the first time I ever heard a waltz played and watched it danced. I was a boy of
thirteen or fourteen at the time. The scene was a ball at Government House in Poona. I
daresay the orchestra was worse than mediocre; I doubt if the dancers were particularly
expert. I had no standards to judge by. My taste was utterly unformed. But there in the
brightly lit ballroom the dancers swirled before me; it was as if the figures on some
beautifully carved frieze had come suddenly to warm and glowing life; the lilt and sway of
the music swept into my heart like a flooding tide of joy. The lights that shone in that
ballroom have been extinguished sixty years and more, and the dancers are all gone, but the
memory of the music and movement has never faded.

I had discovered a source of happiness which I was never to lose. As life has gone on I have
become more and more interested and I have found more and more refreshment and solace in
music, in the ballet, the opera and the theater. These for me have ranked first among the arts.
Pictures I have liked, but in a comparatively restricted field. Like many others of my
generation I was brought up on the work of the great masters of the Italian and, to a lesser
extent, the Dutch and British schools; but dutifully though I went around the art galleries,
they never stirred me. It was when I first saw Turner's work that I saw what painting really
could mean. Then about 1904 I saw my first French impressionists; here for me was an
extension and development of the same satisfaction that Turner gave me — their early
landscapes, not their portraits. Turner, Monet, Renoir, Pissarro, those are my painters. In
sculpture and in furniture my taste is sheerly Egyptian — the great statuaries of ancient Egypt,
the simple, pure, formal yet flowing lines of the ordinary, day-to-day furniture that you see
exhibited in the Cairo Museum, those are enough for me. English and French furniture, even
of the "great" periods, leaves me cold. I care little for jewelry or work in precious metals,
except silver; beautiful silver has always held a considerable attraction for me.

But in those realms of aesthetic experience that I do care about, much have I traveled and
much have I profoundly enjoyed. I am proud to recall that I have counted among my personal
friends many of the great artists of this century. I know Stravinsky well, and my knowledge
of much of his early work was close and intimate. In his association with Diaghilev he wrote,
as everyone knows, the music for some of the finest ballets ever created by that master
impresario; I heard much of that music before it was orchestrated.

I knew Puccini quite well. I think I must have been one of the first of his friends to notice a
troublesome and increasing hoarseness in Puccini's voice, a hoarseness which was the first
indication of the malady which ultimately killed him — as tactfully as I could, I suggested to
him that instead of perpetually sucking cough lozenges, he ought to go to see a doctor.
Massenet was another friend of mine, and we often dined together at the Hotel de Paris in

Monte Carlo. Once when he was, as I had been given to understand, laid low with bronchitis,
I drove over from Cannes to see him at the Hotel de Paris. I was shown up immediately to his
sitting room. He was stark naked in the room next door in a marble bathtub before a blazing
fire. He was busily dictating music to a woman secretary. Neither he nor she seemed at all
discomposed; I was, I must confess, somewhat taken aback. Massenet, however, was voluble
in his explanation. He had had a rush of creative ideas which had to be put down on paper.
Since I had come all the way from Cannes to call on him, would it not have been
discourteous to refuse to see me?

"Please sit down," he said. "I must just finish this piece of work."

For nearly an hour he sat on in the bath, turning the hot tap on from time to time, repeating
and trying out bars and single notes of music, and making his secretary sing them back to
him, so that it began to sound as if he were giving her a singing lesson. At last the flow of
inspiration ceased, the young woman shut her notebook and hurried away, and only then did
the old gentleman — he was, after all, about seventy — reali z e that he was sitting there naked
and that the water had grown chilly. He jumped out of the bath, ran into his bedroom, put on
a bathrobe, and came back to bid me a friendly and courteous good-by.

I have known many actors and singers: Madame Bartet of the Comedie Frangaise; Jean de
Reszke, the great tenor and teacher of a new generation of singers; Caruso, whose
magnificent voice seemed literally to shake Covent Garden to its foundations when he soared
to his highest notes. Though perhaps not as pure an artist as Tomagno, I think that he was,
without doubt, the greatest tenor of my time. I remember Melba in her magnificent prime; it
was told of her that when she first presented herself at the Opera in Paris the director, though
he recognized the potentialities of her voice, said that her Australian accent was so
formidable that he would be able to do nothing with her. Like many other great singers Melba
was a hearty eater; she liked a good, rich supper after the opera, and to top it off she had a
habit of ordering ice cream, a fresh peach, strawberries, and cream and consuming the lot
together. Escoffier, the famous restaurateur, heard about this habit, made an established dish
of it and named it in her honor. So was born the now universally known Pecbe Melba.

In England I knew well many of the most famous figures of the stage, from Sir Henry Irving
(whom I often visited in his dressing room at the Lyceum Theater) to the George Alexanders,
the Trees, Sir Seymour Hicks and his wife Ellaline Terriss, and many, many others. I made
the acquaintance of Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson through a friend of mine, a fellow
member of the Marlborough, Douglas Ainsley. Ainsley himself was a man of originality of
character and some talent; formerly a member of the diplomatic service, he established in his
own person a kind of unofficial liaison between the world of society and the world of the
stage. Forbes-Robertson suggested that I should write an Oriental tragedy for him on an
historical theme, leaving it to me to choose my subject out of the great mass of Islamic lore
and legend. I chose the sad and stirring story of the murder of the Prophet's grandson, my
ancestor, Hussein, at Kerbela, and made a beginning with it. One day in the summer of 1904
at Douglas Ainsley's house I read Forbes-Robertson what I had written; I don't think he liked
it very much. Thenceforward I abandoned any idea of writing dramatic poetry.

To return to composers — when I first arrived in Europe the great controversy about Wagner
was still in full swing. But it was of course, as all musical appreciation was in those days in
every Western European country except Italy, restricted to a comparatively few. One of the
great changes that I have seen in my lifetime has been the vast extension of musical
understanding, taste and appreciation through all sections of society. The old, snobbish
glamour may have departed; but the breakdown of class distinction not only in England but in
France and Switzerland too has, in my opinion, done a great deal of good. It is especially
noticeable over the ballet; and here I may claim that I have watched, from very close quarters,
an immense revolution in taste from its beginnings.

Diaghilev was the creator and inspirer of this revolution. As Caesar in Britain, so was the
Russian, Diaghilev, in prewar Western Europe — he came, he saw, he conquered. He himself
maintained that he would never have had a chance to demonstrate his originality or exert his
influence as he did in Western Europe had he remained in Russia, where — although it was
the home of the ballet in a certain sense — the classical mold was firmly fixed, and there was
no opportunity for that creative fire which, once he was abroad, Diaghilev set burning so
furiously.

From the first I was one of Diaghilev's enthusiastic and unwavering supporters, and so I
remained till his untimely death. I doubt if the magnitude of Diaghilev's achievement is
generally realized today. A new generation takes it all for granted. Ballet, as it was
understood and practiced in Western Europe, before he came on the scene, was a sterile and
virtually static minor art form from which real vitality and excitement — as distinct from mere
repetitive prettiness — seemed to have ebbed away. Then in 1909 and 1910 Diaghilev burst
like a bomb on the aesthetic consciousness of Europe. His dynamic influence was not
confined to the ballet; it spilled over into all the allied arts and revolutionized their
fundamental ideas, creative and critical. On the concepts of uniting music and motion and the
representation of abstract ideas and ideals through movement as much as through music,
Diaghilev's influence was tremendous and lasting. This obviously was the core of his unique
achievement; but what would stage decor, costume design, feminine fashion, furnishings and
interior decorations have been in the first half of this century without Diaghilev? His impact
on the major plastic arts of sculpture and painting was no less revolutionary. Yet his
wonderful, unique quality was one of indirect creativeness. It is possible to argue that he
himself in fact never created anything, but the truth is that the creative work of everyone who
collaborated with him was, profoundly and really, his creation too. How many artists did
what the world now recognizes to be their best work for him and with him? Not only dancers
like Karsavina, Nijinsky, Lifar and Massine, but a painter like Bakst, a musician like
Stravinsky. He was an impresario of genius, and he was something more. He so infused and
inspired others that, working for him, they were better and bigger than they ever could have
been without him and the result of the association has been that some of them have become
today the most famous and wonderful choreographers in the world. Nijinsky was the supreme
and tragic example of this mysterious power which he exerted, of genius evoking genius. But
his influence was no less important on many others, over whom his hold was not so
obviously hypnotic. Imposing his strong, original taste on a band of talented artists and

extracting from them their best and most original work, he imposed that taste on Europe —
with unforgettable, immeasurable effect.

I often used to be present at his conferences with all of his leading associates — "heads of
departments" as he called them: Stravinsky, Bakst, Nijinsky, Karsavina, his ballet master, his
choreographer in chief, a young poet perhaps, a venerable and venerated artist like Rodin. A
conference was like a council of war. Each would pour out his ideas into a common pool, but
Diaghilev — have no doubt of it -was the supreme commander; he imposed a unity of form
and aesthetic conception, he turned a mass of brilliant projects into an ordered and coherent
work of art. The clash of ideas was subdued and hammered into shape, and the final result,
far more often than not, was a masterpiece.

The practical foundation, on which this exuberance of talent was based, seemed at first sight
fragile in the extreme. Diaghilev was always in debt; he never — apparently — had a penny in
hand. His creative imagination — and his own faith in it — outsoared these (as it seemed to
him) minor considerations. He knew that he was creating a masterpiece, a series of
masterpieces; he trusted implicitly that his audiences would recognize the value of his work.
He possessed that faith which moves mountains — and mountains of difficulty dissolved as he
went along. Whenever the financial situation looked most desperate, some new wealthy
patron, some Maecenas would turn up; the most immediate and pressing difficulties would be
smoothed away; and he would sweep in confidence to his next triumph. On the stage, too, his
capacity for improvisation and his total reliance on it were all-pervasive. Until the last minute
every new production bore the appearance of total chaos, but somehow by some magic of his
own, between the final rehearsal and the first night, when everyone else around him was
despairing and on the edge of nervous collapse, Diaghilev would induce order out of the
hurly-burly; and another thunderously acclaimed success would be added to the lengthening
roll. Night after night the HOUSE FULL board would go out in front of the theater. The
whole season would be triumphant. At its close, off Diaghilev and the company would go to
London and to other capitals and provincial centers, to the same acclamation, with the same
story of success, until the money ran out. He was indeed unique, but the revolution in art
which his genius precipitated has continued to run its course since his death. The revitalized
and flourishing art of the ballet all over the world — in Paris, London and the United States —
is the beautiful and fruitful tree whose seeds this strange, turbulent and brilliant man so
lavishly sowed. It is a profound cause of satisfaction to those who, like myself, saw his work
at close quarters and almost from its inception to know that this great aesthetic revolution, as
fundamental and as far-reaching as that which Wagner brought about in the world of music,
was the work of a genius whom we were privileged to know as a friend.

Diaghilev and the ballet were the center of that fascinating world of highly sophisticated,
highly cultivated creative work and critical appreciation in which, during those years
immediately before the First World War, I lived so full and so zestful a life. Time, chance,
war, economic and social change have wreaked havoc with the rich fabric and pattern of a
civilization and a way of life which then seemed indestructible. However, if much is lost,
much has been gained in those magnificent and widespread effects of the revolution in all
artistic matters achieved by Diaghilev. While the classes have lost, the masses have gained.

The diffusion of culture is not just a textbook phrase nowadays; it is a reality. When I think of
the theaters and opera houses, the concert halls and art galleries of Western Europe today,
and of the people of all social classes (and not just a wealthy and leisured few) who throng
them, whose pleasure and mental and spiritual enrichment are so obvious; when I think of
how real and eager understanding and appreciation of the arts have extended in recent
decades to every level of society — then I see far more reason to rejoice than to lament. There
are some, however, who cannot share my optimism. The sadness of one facet of the years of
transition is for me summed up and symbolized in an encounter which I had in the theater in
Zurich, in the middle of the Second World War, with Richard Strauss. I had known him well
at the height of his international fame. Around us there was a continent, a world, locked in
relentless conflict, a nightmare projection into grim reality of all Wagner's most terrible
imaginings and forebodings. Strauss was an old, heartbroken man. He saw me, flung up both
his arms in a sad, despairing gesture, rolled his eyes upward and muttered some incoherent
phrase in which I could just catch the word "God," and stumbled forlornly away.

From 1907 until the outbreak of war I was in Europe for some part of every year. Movement
from country to country, from continent to continent, though more leisurely than it is today,
was also a great deal easier and freer. Civilization had not learned all the tortuous refinements
of passports and visas, of exchange control and security regulations. The number of
Americans who were coming to Europe was increasing year by year; many of them were
affluent; many were people of cultivated and sophisticated tastes; some stayed permanently,
some came back and forth, some maintained largescale establishments on the Riviera or
elsewhere. Many of them were "characters" in their own right — the remarkable James
Gordon Bennett, for example, the famous proprietor of the New York Herald who had a villa
at Beaulieu-sur-Mer. He was then an old man, and he looked his age. He was apt to be short-
tempered and peppery, but he had a warm, kind heart. The hospitality which he and his
delightful wife most liked to dispense was breakfast, big and elaborate meal with every kind
of characteristic American dish. I recall that during the First World War he developed the
strongest antipathy to bad news of any kind. If his attention were drawn to any tactical or
strategic reverse suffered by the Western Allies, his temper became terrible, the unhappy
bringer of bad tidings was so abused and berated that it was difficult not to believe that he
was not actually responsible for the reverse which he had been so rash as to mention.

Others whose acquaintance and friendship I made at this time included Mr. Harjes, of
Morgan's Bank, a staunch supporter of the Allied cause from the day war broke out, and his
wife — one of the world's most beautiful women, a queenly, glorious, magnificent woman;

Mr. Ralph Curtis — a lively amusing conversationalist -and his wife; Mr. and Mrs. James H.
Hyde; Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Berenson; and Walter Berry, who had been a judge of the mixed
courts in Cairo, and who was a lifelong friend of Edith Wharton, the novelist-historian of
New York.

Bernard Berenson took considerable pride in the care and precision with which he
pronounced the English language. His verbal armor, however, had one curious chink in it; he
pronounced the simple word "corkscrew" as if it had a third syllable in it — "corkerscrew."
Some of his friends who knew of this little vagary, having got him off his guard,

mischievously put him to the test one April Fool's Day. To everyone's delight out popped
"corkerscrew"; and for years afterward if he dared to take up a stand on correct
pronunciation, he would be vociferously reminded of that intrusive syllable.

Ralph Curtis had an addiction to puns; years before I knew him he happened to be in Bombay
when Mr. W. K. Vanderbilt (the father of Consuelo, Duchess of Marlborough, later Madame
Balsan) arrived in his yacht. Lord Harris, then Governor, held the erroneous opinion,
frequently held by Englishmen, that American society was built on money. Aware that the
Vanderbilts were very rich, he condescendingly asked Ralph Curtis if he knew Mr.
Vanderbilt, clearly implying that it would be quite an honor if he did.

"I never knew the Vanderbilts," said Ralph Curtis, demurely, "for when I lived in New York
they were still Vanderbuilding."

At James Hyde's house I met several times Monsieur Hanotaux, the famous historian,
member of the Academie Fran§aise, and statesman, who had been France's Foreign Minister
from 1894 to 1898. He took a fancy to me and often we found ourselves discussing politics. I
remember that he affirmed with great earnestness that if the Meline Cabinet of 1898, of
which he had been a member, had not fallen, and if the coalition of parties that had put
Meline in office had maintained their support of him instead of backing Delcasse, it might
have proved possible to achieve a fair and friendly solution of the problem of Alsace-
Forraine which would have been honorable and satisfying to both France and Germany. If
Hanotaux's assertion was right, here was another of those missed chances in diplomacy,
another wrong turning, where if the right decision had been taken, the First World War need
never have happened.

Walter Berry brought me into acquaintanceship with Mrs. Edith Wharton and with Marcel
Proust. Walter Berry, a bachelor and an agreeable and charming conversationalist, had
somehow or another achieved among the women members of the little circle in which he and
I then moved the reputation of being the greatest marital submarine torpedo that had ever
existed. The ladies averred that he had told each of them separately that she was far too good
for her husband; he was a distinguished man, a famous lawyer — what could they do but
believe him? And every time there was another marriage torpedoed. It was the kind of joke
which a small, sophisticated society can get hold of, work almost to death and never let go.
But Walter Berry had one remarkable claim to fame. He was one of the few people in the
world who could at any time ask Proust to dinner and always be sure of an acceptance. Oddly
enough, I never met Proust at the Ritz, where he used to go a great deal, but I did meet him
several times at dinner at Walter Berry's. What I remember most about Proust was his
silences; I recall only one remark of his. A Mademoiselle Atoucha, an Argentine lady who
was affianced to a French Marquis, was Berry's fourth guest. Proust surveyed her, observed
that she looked like Cleopatra, and said nothing else for the rest of the dinner. On this, as on
other occasions, Berry and I did our best to sustain the conversation, and the great novelist sat
silently watching and listening to us; it was a slightly disconcerting experience.

This was the society, these were some of the friends of my leisure in these happy and
agreeable years. Work, of course, continued unabated. I spent a considerable part of each year
in India, concerned not only with my duties toward my followers but with the interests and
the responsibilities which I had acquired in Indian politics. These were the years in which the
Morley-Minto reforms were being put into practice. It was proved that the principle of
separate electoral representation for Muslims, which we had fought so hard to have
established, was sound and workable as well as theoretically just. Muslim political
consciousness, under the leadership of men like Nawab Ali Chowdry and the Nawab of
Dacca in Bengal, and of Sir Mohammed Shaffi and Sir Sulfiqar Ali Khan in the Punjab,
matured and strengthened steadily.

I myself was devoting a good deal of time, energy and interest to the affairs of Aligarh. I
suppose that I was a sort of one-man "ginger group" on behalf of the project of converting
Aligarh into a great Muslim university. Steadily during these years we aroused interest in and
extended support for our project. Of course it provoked opposition from that powerful British
element whose argument was that a Muslim university would be undesirable and that its
tendencies and teachings would be narrowly sectarian and particularist. I strove hard to
counter these criticisms, making it a cardinal point of all my appeals for help, all my speeches
and articles, that the sons of Aligarh University would go forth "through the length and
breadth of the land to preach the gospel of free inquiry, of large-hearted toleration and of pure
morality."

I was not without support in high places. Lord Minto was succeeded by Viceroy Lord
Hardinge of Penshurst, a statesman and diplomat with a wide and long experience of life with
and among Muslim people in Iran and throughout the Near East. As the member of the
Viceroy's Executive Council responsible for education there was a brilliant and devoted
administrator, Sir Harcourt Butler, uncle of Mr. R. A. Butler, Chancellor of the Exchequer in
Sir Winston Churchill's Government of 1951 onward, and the minister responsible for
Britain's great Education Act of 1944. Interest in education is a tradition in the Butler family.
Both Lord Hardinge and Sir Harcourt understood our Muslim position and were aware of the
fundamental differences in the social, cultural and spiritual background of Muslim and
Hindu. For myself, I tried again and again to make it clear that I regarded Muslim educational
advancement not as an end in itself, but as a means to an end. If we were to advance down the
road toward independence and self-government — however distant that goal might seem — we
must, as a community, possess the knowledge and the intellectual equipment to cope with the
political responsibilities to which we were beginning to aspire. I had no narrow sectarian
purpose in view. I urged from the outset that Sanskrit should be taught, and with it the history
and evolution of Hindu civilization, religion and philosophy, in order that our people should
be able better to understand their neighbors. A university of our own was essential because it
was the best and most enduring means of developing the spiritual unity of Islam.

The work of converting others to this belief which I held so ardently, of building up support
for it and of raising funds was extremely strenuous. I traveled all over India. I went to great
Muslim leaders, to the poor and to the rich, to princes and to peasants. My own monetary
contribution was one hundred thousand rupees, which was quite a sum in those days; in all I

collected more than three million rupees. These were years of unremitting hard work. For
days and weeks at a time, it seemed, I lived in railway trains. In every town at which the train
stopped I would address Muslim gatherings on the platform of the railway station. At every
opportunity I preached the cause of Aligarh. My honorary private secretary, and my right-
hand man throughout the campaign, was the late Maulana Shakak Ali; without his steadfast,
unwearying helpl doubt if I should ever have been able to make a success of it.

We reached a climax in the long campaign with the Muslim Educational Conference at
Nagpur in 1910 at which the Aligarh project was the principal item on the agenda, and indeed
dominated the proceedings. Our aims were well expressed by the chairman of the conference,
Mr. Yusuf Ali, who defined the scope of the university which we hoped to establish in these
words: "It will have no tests; freedom and originality of thought will be encouraged. It will be
a Muslim university in the sense that it will promote the ideals which the Muslims of India
have evolved out of the educational experience of two generations."

Now when all is said and done, when I look back on all that the Muslim University of
Aligarh has stood for and achieved in the past forty years, this is without doubt one of the
facets of my life which I can record and contemplate with real and abiding satisfaction. I do
not want to stress only its political consequences, momentous as those have been. Where else
than in a Muslim university would it have been possible to establish and maintain, alongside
and fully integrated with the libraries, the laboratories and all the facilities essential for a full
understanding of our world and our time, a true center of Islamic faith and culture, in which
can be expounded and practiced the principles of our religion, its universality and its real
modernity, its essential reasonableness, its profound spirit of tolerance and charity and
respect for other faiths? That I played my part in establishing such a center is for me one of
the happiest, most consoling and most fortifying thoughts to take into old age.

VII

In Czarist Russia

THE YEARS 1910 to 1914 were eventful, busy and active. Joy and sorrow, work and travel,
disappointment and fulfillment, sport and friendship — I had my ample share of them all
during these years. My wife lived largely in France. In 1909 my first son was born to her, to
whom I gave the name Mehdi. His brief little life ended in February, 1911, and my second
son, Aly, was bom in the following June. His birth was a profound solace and joy to my wife
and me, but for her the happiness of his babyhood was tinged with a solemn sense of
responsibility. Long years had passed since there had been a son in our family. The grief we
felt at the loss of our first-born gave an especial sharpness and watchfulness to the care which
we exercised over his brother's upbringing. When he was quite little he was pronounced to be
delicate; one of the leading child specialists of the time had a great belief in the healthgiving
and health-maintaining properties of the Normandy coast in summertime, especially the sea
air and bathing. From the time that he was two or three, therefore, my wife took him each
summer to Deauville, and their winters they spent in the south of France. For some years my
wife lived in Monte Carlo and then she moved to Cimiez.

In May, 1910, my great and good friend, King Edward VII, died in London. As loyal duty
and friendship bade, I hastened to attend his funeral; and I had an audience with his
successor, King George V.

The King was buried in St. George's Chapel at Windsor; myplace in the procession and my
seat in the chapel were near the Royal Family and the Royal guests from foreign countries. In
the procession the German Emperor walked beside King George V. This placing provoked a
minor but significant diplomatic incident. When a number of sovereigns are assembled
together in one place, the protocol is that they take precedence, not according to the size or
importance of their countries nor alphabetically (as do delegates at an international
conference), but according to seniority of accession to the throne. Thus if the King of
Bulgaria (in the days when there was a reigning King of Bulgaria) had been longest on the
throne, he would take the head of any procession, and if the sovereign of the United Kingdom
or the Emperor of Japan had only just acceded, he would go last. But on this occasion the
German Emperor was put next to King George V, the principal mourner, and all the other
monarchs followed him. The storm arose indirectly because the King of Greece, who was
senior in the matter of accession, walked ahead of the King of Spain. Now the King of Spain
had acceded to his throne in babyhood, before the German Emperor had come into his
inheritance; and King Alfonso considered himself every whit as good as the Kaiser, if not his
superior. As soon as the various sovereigns had taken leave and were on their way home, the
Spanish Ambassador made a formal protest on behalf of his Royal Master and his
Government against the affront offered by the placing of the German Emperor ahead of His
Most Catholic Majesty, and added that since the King of Greece had been put ahead of the
King of Spain on the grounds of seniority of accession, then both the King of Greece and the
King of Spain should have preceded the German Emperor if protocol were to be properly
observed. This put the Foreign Office and the Court in a quandary. An apology would have
been worse than useless because high officials of Court and State are not expected to make
mistakes of this sort. Finally the problem reached the King. He solved it diplomatically and
ingeniously: the Kaiser, he said, was King Edward's nephew and his own first cousin, and for
these reasons alone he had been given precedence, not as a reigning sovereign, but as a
family mourner. This rather pitiable little complication aside, the whole ceremony was
deeply affecting.

Later there was trouble too about the precedence accorded to the former President of the
United States, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, who was his country's official representative. Since
he was not a Royal personage, his place in the funeral procession and at other solemn
functions was a lowly one. The United States and France both protested at this procedure
which, although it was in full accord with international custom in those days, seemed even
then both undignified and anachronistic. From that time on, the representatives of republics
were deemed to rank with royalty and a new and more fitting order of precedence was
established.

There were many wet eyes that day — mine, I am not ashamed to admit, among them. Shortly
afterward King George V issued instructions to the India Office that I was to be invited to the
Coronation as a special and honored guest of his own, and the invitation was to cover not

merely the ceremony but all the functions, banquets, state receptions and so forth. I sat in his
box at the special gala performances at the Royal Opera House.

The Coronation of King George V was held in June, 191 1. It was one of great pomp and
splendor, a stately showing forth of all Britain's grandeur, wealth and power. The year 1911,
however, was a year of increasing international tension; and the internal political conflict in
Britain over Mr. Lloyd George's budgetary measures, over Ireland and over the constitutional
position of the House of Lords had become extremely embittered. Against the dark clouds of
the approaching storm, the Coronation Season shone with a special brightness of its own. I
have two vivid recollections of this time. The first is of the ballet that was given at the gala
performance at Covent Garden; it was Pavilion d'Armide — surely the most appropriate ballet
possible for such an occasion — and the principal dancers included Nijinsky and Karsavina. It
was of unforgettable beauty and grace; it stands out in my memory as one of the most
exquisite theatrical experiences that I have ever seen.

My other lasting impression is of the presence of the Crown Prince of Germany, of the
attention that was paid to him, of the real and sincere effort made by everyone, from the
King and Queen down, to convince him of Britain's good will and peaceful intentions toward
his country. I recall that at Covent Garden he sat on Queen Mary's right, and I saw that she
engaged him in earnest conversation and that her courtesy to him was not formal or chilly.

A few months later the King and Queen set out on their journey to India — the first and only
reigning Sovereign and his Consort to visit India during the period of British rule. Early in
1912 the magnificent Coronation Durbar was held in Delhi; it was announced that the capital
and seat of government were to be transferred to Delhi from Calcutta, and a new city built
commensurate with the dignity, authority and (as it seemed then) permanence of the Indian
Empire. The partition of Bengal was annulled, and -as a climax and crown to my work in past
years, and the work of those who had co-operated with me zealously and so steadfastly -
Aligarh was given the status of a university. The King-Emperor personally bestowed on me
the highest decoration which it was possible for any Indian subject of the Crown to receive, a
Knight Grand Commander of the Star of India.

Splendid as were the Durbar ceremonies, they were marred by two curious contretemps. At
the great state banquet, to which most of the notables of India had been invited, some disaster
occurred in the kitchen, and the food that emerged was just enough to give the King and a
handful of people sitting near him a full meal. For almost all of the guests it was the only
chance in their lives that they would ever have of dining in the King's company, but most of
them had no dinner.

The other had far more alarming implications. The investiture, at which I received my
decoration of the G.C.S.I., was held at night in an enormous and brilliantly lighted tent. It was
a full state ceremony: the King-Emperor and his Consort sat enthroned; the Viceroy, the
Provincial Governors, the Commander in Chief and the senior military commanders, a superb
assemblage of Ruling Princes, all the leading officials, Indian and British, from every comer
of India, were gathered in honor of a stately and memorable occasion. Suddenly one of the

electric light bulbs, high up near the canvas canopy of the roof, began to play pranks. A11 eyes
went to its flickerings. Suppose it were to explode — in that instant the same silent, horrifying
thought occurred to almost everyone present. Whistles were blowing, we could hear fire
engines clanking up; behind their Majesties' thrones officers had already drawn their swords
and were hacking at the hangings and the canvas to make a way out for the King and Queen.
But the rest of us were trapped. Had the tent caught fire it would have blazed up like a
celluloid pingpong bah put near the hearth, and scarcely one of us inside would have
survived. The humanitarian aspect of the disaster which we contemplated was appalling
enough. Even more fearful to most of us was the thought of the political, administrative and
social chaos ah over India that would have followed. The country would have been left
without a single leading figure. Next day both the King and the Viceroy told me that instant
orders had gone forth that no ceremony of this sort was ever to be held again by night in a
tent.

A great military parade was a central feature of the Durbar celebrations. Many of us, Indian
and British alike, were becoming more acutely aware of the importance of the Indian Army in
Britain's world- wide imperial strategy, with her vast commitments and the growing sense of
international tension. Britain's own Regular Army, a considerable portion of which was
habitually stationed in India, was — though well trained and of admirable morale — small in
comparison with those of any of her possible challengers. Haldane, as Secretary of State for
War, had thoroughly reorganized the military machine and had brought into being the
volunteer and part-time Territorial Army; but Britain had refused to heed the urgent pleas of
the veteran Field Marshal, Lord Roberts, for a Continental system of universal national
service. I was able to link the developing recognition of Britain's military needs and of India's
position in relation to those needs with my own passion for Indian education.

In an article which I contributed to Leo Maxse's National Review in July, 1911 (it was not a
journal whose imperialist politics I shared, but it was widely read by people whom I was
eager to reach with my views), I put my arguments as forcefully as I could.

Educate, educate, educate. Look for a passing moment at the question of manpower. India
could put troops into South Africa as quickly as they could be sent from England; she could
land soldiers in Australia long before England could so do; and forces from India could reach
western Canada almost as soon as from England. If by education the myriads of India can be
taught that they are guardians and supporters of the Crown, just as are the white citizens of
the Empire, then the realization that India and the self-governing dominions stand and fall
together, bound by a community of interests and a common cause to maintain, will have
come. It is imperative to give Indians the education to fit them for their future role in the
British Empire.

In two world wars, one of which was to break out only three years after these words were
written, my arguments were justified to the hilt.

The autumn of 1912 found me on my travels again — this time to Russia. The Czar Nicholas
II, in appearance almost the double of his cousin, King George V, had visited India when he

was Czarevitch; however, that was a good many years earlier, and I had never met him since.
Many of his relatives habitually visited the south of France — the Grand Dukes Boris and
Nicholas among them, and the Czar's own brother, the Grand Duke Michael — and with
several I was on terms of warm friendship; they had often asked me to visit them at home.

Patrician and aristocratic life in England and in many other European countries had its own
magnificence and stateliness; but they were as nothing compared with the luxury and
opulence of the elaborate and gilded existence that was led by the Russian aristocracy in
Saint Petersburg, as I saw it that winter.

More than thirty years have passed since the Revolution shattered their world; many were
murdered, many went into exile, in towns like Harbin and Shanghai, in Constantinople, in
Berlin, Paris and the south of France. Among those who had to refashion life from its
foundations was a distinguished soldier, formerly Military Attache in London, General
Polovtsoff, who for many years has been a well-known and much-liked figure in Monte
Carlo. Like many of his companions in exile, he has borne his vicissitudes with courage,
dignity and a fine, high spirit. It happened that in 19121 was the guest of General Polovtsoff
and his brother in the house — the palace — which they had inherited from their father who
had been a minister of the Czar.

The splendor of that house was beyond description. The banquet hall, in which my hosts gave
a luncheon party in my honor, was, I am sure, fully three times the size of the great salon of
any eighteenth-century Italian palazzo. Its walls were hung with magnificent pictures and
tapestry; there were great, many-colored, strongly scented banks of hothouse flowers, and the
luncheon itself was on a prodigious scale. And this was only one of many similar functions at
which I was entertained in similar houses of almost fairy tale magnificence that I visited.

Life was adjusted to a curious and, at first, somewhat unsettling timetable, for which —
accustomed as I was to social life in London and Paris — I was not immediately prepared. The
first of my many invitations to supper showed me what I had to learn. I had been asked to
what I knew was to be a big supper party at a famous general's house, to be attended by
several of the grand dukes and a number of leading ladies of the theater. With my notions of
this kind of entertainment in London or in Paris, I arrived at the house a little after midnight.
To my surprise there was no one else there; even the servants looked as if they had just
awakened, as they scurried around turning on the lights. For an hour or thereabouts I waited
in some embarrassment until at last my host and hostess came downstairs. Between half past
one and two the other guests began to arrive and the vast salon began to look a little less
empty. It was well after two o'clock when we went in to supper. After supper there was some
music, and it was nearing half past four when the party broke up and we went home. This, I
quickly learned, was the normal convention.

Saint Petersburg was a winter capital. Its season was a winter season. I arrived there near its
beginning, in late November. The cold was already intense. The days were dark and short, the
nights long and bitter, and the city itself snowbound. Here are — to me — the reasons for the
unusual tempo and rhythm of life there. The day ordinarily began about noon; shops, banks

and offices remained open until late in the evening. Work was done and business transacted
from midday on; and the nights were given up to the varied and elegant pursuits and
distractions of a gay, cultivated and sophisticated society. The theaters were excellent, so
were the opera and the ballet. There were innumerable parties; there were moonlight drives in
troikas across the icebound Neva to some of the islands that were not too far distant from the
capital. In the few hours of daylight there were often shooting parties in the surrounding
countryside; enthusiastic sportsmen hunted not only game birds and deer but also bears.

All the houses were, to my way of thinking, grossly overheated and thoroughly
underventilated. In cities like London and Paris I had grown accustomed to houses in which,
even in cold weather, the windows and the doors were constantly open, and I was shocked
and not a little disgusted by Russian habits in this matter. All houses were built with double
glass windows. Some time in early November, when winter was setting in, workmen would
nail down all these windows so that they could not be opened again until the end of April.

One small pane was left free at the top of each window; every morning this would be opened
for an hour or so and then shut again. This was all the fresh air that any room got. On my
very first night at the British Embassy I said to my hostess, the Ambassador's wife, Lady
Buchanan, that I thought this a most unhygienic and most unpleasant custom. She answered
me that when she and her husband first went to Saint Petersburg, they tried to live as they
would in England with the windows hardly ever fully shut, either by day or by night.
However, the whole family fell ill. They had had to adopt the custom of the country, and
since then there had been no illness. She told me too that in all the big houses, at which
parties were given and large numbers of people gathered together, the rooms were scented
and the air specially sweetened and purified.

The corollary of this permanent overheating of the houses was that Russians of all classes had
comparatively light indoor clothing. But when they went out of doors everyone piled on
heavy furs. The well-to-do would be thickly wrapped in sables, the poorer classes in
sheepskin. Everyone had sheepskin caps, thick warm gloves and snow boots. I had been
accustomed to being told that one ought not to go suddenly from warm rooms into bitter cold
outside, and at first I thought the whole Russian way of life — similar to some extent, I
suppose, to that in Canada in the winter and in many of the northerly states of the United
States — "unhealthy"; but a few weeks in Saint Petersburg and Moscow rid me of this
prejudice.

I soon came to the conclusion that the Hermitage Museum was the finest I had ever seen, far
superior to the Louvre, the National Gallery or New York's Metropolitan Museum. Its
superiority lay in its rigid selectivity. There was nothing indifferent or third-rate on view;
everything shown was of supreme merit. There was no need, as in every other big museum or
art gallery that I have ever been to, to trudge mile after mile past inferior works, questionable
attributions, copies and studies by the pupils of great masters. At the Hermitage, under the
direction of Count Tolstoy, a relative of the great novelist, all this had been sternly relegated
to the vaults. He had instituted, so I was given to understand, a regime whereby everything
was taken off the walls which, whether by a great artist or merely alleged to be by him, did

not possess its own intrinsic beauty and merit. The effect therefore was of a small, pure
collection of masterpieces, and it was extraordinarily refreshing.

One of the treasures of the Hermitage was a wonderful collection of old English silver of the
period of Charles II, when the art of the silversmith in England was at its height. The
collection, so I believe, was made by Peter the Great, who visited England as a young man
and worked in the shipyards at Deptford. Half savage, half genius, he had a strong and
genuine aesthetic streak in him, excellent taste — witness the pictures which he chose while
he was in Holland — and sure, clear judgment.

I remember being transported with delight by the choral singing in the Cathedral of St. Isaac
in Saint Petersburg. I have often listened to fine singing in both Catholic and Anglican
cathedrals in Western Europe, but never have I heard a choir whose singing was as pure and
as majestic as that. Boys were recruited, I was told, from all over Russia, trained from an
early age and given sound professional or technical schooling at the same time.

Despite the full social life that I led with the Czar's brother, the Grand Duke Michael, his
cousins, and the officers of his crack regiments, I never met or had an audience with the Czar.
He lived a strangely secluded existence; and in the last years of his sad and troubled reign his
seclusion deepened and his circle narrowed. He was of a nervous, shy and naturally
melancholy disposition; his Empress was superstitiously pious, courageous and dignified but
utterly out of touch with reality; his son and heir was delicate and ailing. All the
circumstances of his life combined to encourage him in a somber remoteness. I was told that
if I wanted to see him, an official approach and a request for an audience would have to be
made through diplomatic channels and that it would have to have the character of an official
visit. I did not, therefore, even make the attempt. One of the Czar's few sociable
characteristics, so I was informed, was his love and enjoyment of the theater, especially ballet
and the opera. He had a habit of coming into a theater after the performance had started,
accompanied only by one or two officer friends, and would slip unobserved into a small stage
box. The only indication of his presence would be the loud and enthusiastic applause, the
hurrahs and bravos, which were heard behind the curtain of his box. Perhaps only there, a few
feet from the make-believe world beyond the footlights, could this shy, sad, solitary man
forget his sorrows and shed his inhibitions.

From Saint Petersburg I went on to Moscow. Moscow's prosperity in those days was founded
on commerce and industry. The court and the aristocracy made Saint Petersburg their
headquarters; rich industrialists were the chief citizens of Moscow. Their wealth was derived
from various sources: sugar, the rapidly developing oil industry of the Caspian Sea region,
and piece goods from the cotton factories of Moscow. They bore a considerable similarity to
the same powerful capitalist class in the United States. They lived in magnificent style; their
houses were virtually palaces and museums, for, like the nobles of Saint Petersburg, many of
these merchant princes were connoisseurs of the arts. I noticed, incidentally, that Moscow's
tastes seemed more catholic than Saint Petersburg's; my favorite French impressionists had to
some extent taken their fancy, whereas in Saint Petersburg all the paintings that I saw were of
the classical schools.

The gulf between rich and poor was truly appalling. I took some trouble to study labor
conditions in the mills and textile factories; they resembled in many ways Bombay's cotton
mills, but conditions in them were infinitely worse. I have no hesitation in saying that, poor,
miserable and ill-fed as were the Bombay mill hands of those days, they looked happier and
livelier than the Moscow workers of the same sort. In Bombay you could at least see smiles;
every Moscow mill hand looked drawn, haggard and tired to death. Yet I doubt if either in the
matter of wages or diet the Moscow worker was worse off than his Bombay counterpart. The
reason for the difference lay, I think in one simple fact — the climate. In his hours off work,
for at least eight months of the year, the Bombay mill hand, however poor and downtrodden,
could walk in the fresh air, could see the sun and the moon and the stars. For eight months of
the year life for the Moscow worker, on the other hand, was only possible indoors — in the
hot, steamy atmosphere of the mill or in an overheated, overcrowded little room in one of the
great, grim barracklike buildings that served so many of them as homes.

An odd custom prevailed in those days in the public baths of Russia's great cities — I visited
one in Moscow, so I am not talking from hearsay — in the administration of what were known
as Russian steam baths, really very like our Turkish baths. The attendants who looked after
you, who gave you your soap and your towels, massaged you, looked after all your wants,
were women — but elderly and of so plain and sour a visage that it would have been utterly
impossible to imagine even the slightest misbehavior with them. Nor, I was assured, did
misbehavior occur. This was simply regarded as useful employment for women past middle
age; and no one — except the raw foreign visitor like myself — thought it in the slightest
degree unusual.

While I was still in Russia the first match was set to the conflagration that soon was to engulf
the whole world. The Balkan Wars -first the attack by a combination of small Balkan
countries on the Ottoman Empire, and then their ferocious quarrels with each other — were
not then merely localized conflicts, which many tried to convince themselves that they were;
in fact they were unmistakable indications of what was to come. Turkey, whose internal
difficulties and troubles had accumulated and deepened in recent years, reeled under
successive blows from her enemies. Day after day news of fresh disasters reached the outside
world. By the time I returned to Paris and before I left for India the extent of Turkey's plight
was obvious; it seemed to be only a matter of time before her foes had her completely at their
mercy. The feelings of Muslim India, indeed of the whole Islamic world, were deeply stirred.
I made as much haste as I could to get back to Bombay. My closest political friends and
associates were active on behalf of the Turks. An organization had been set up, representing
all branches of Muslim opinion in India and including many of those most closely concerned
with Aligarh, the purpose of which was to render all possible assistance to Turkey and to
bring maximum pressure to bear on the British Government in order that Britain's influence
should be exerted in the Concert of Europe to make defeat tolerable and honorable for the
Turks. A practical gesture of help had been made in the equipment and dispatch to the war
area of a Red Crescent medical mission, led by Dr. Ansari — one of India's outstanding
medical practitioners. This was the kind of worthwhile, humane work which I was happy to
support. I contributed too to Turkey's war loans; but I found myself involved in a distressing

difference of opinion with the majority of my Muslim brethren in India over our attitude
toward this conflict — a difference of opinion which, I am sorry to say, disrupted for some
time the hitherto close and intimate associations, in thought and action, which had subsisted
between myself and other Muslim leaders in India.

We were giving as much aid as we could to Turkey, but how much, in fact, did it amount to?
The honest answer was — very little. We were not, of course, our own masters; and our real
influence on British policy toward the whole Turco-Balkan issue was negligible. The
Government lent a courteous if distant ear to our earnest supplications, but they could well
afford to pay no practical attention to us. British opinion in general about the Ottoman
Empire — "the Sick Man of Europe," as portrayed by the political cartoonists of Punch and
other papers — was at best lukewarm. The European political situation was tense and
precarious. Britain's friends in the Concert of Europe — France, Russia and to a lesser extent
Italy — were anything but pro-Turkish, and the main concern of all of them was to avoid an
open breach with Germany and Austria. A delicate but chilly policy of nonintervention was
the furthest that Britain was willing to go. But the general run of Muslim opinion in India was
far more fiery; the honor and integrity of Islam were at stake; and we should urge the Turks
to hold on, to face every risk and accept every sacrifice and to carry the war on to the utmost
end.

Fine sentiments, but I demurred from them. I pointed out that it was not really in our power to
help the Turks; great and generous as our emotions doubtless were, we were quite incapable
at that time of turning our feelings into action. To call on the Turks to stand, fight and die for
the cause of Islam, to the last piastre and the last Turk, while we survived was unfair and
unjust to the Turks. Far from helping them, it was actually worsening their plight.

I did not mince my words. I gave an interview along these lines to The Times of India, the
most widely read and most responsible newspaper in the subcontinent. I observed that it was
all very well to send heartening telegrams to the Turks: GO ON, FIGHT ON! DO NOT
ACCEPT DEFEAT, WHATEVER THE SACRIFICE! But we who had sent the telegram
could then go home and sleep soundly in our peaceful beds. These were not popular
comments, and they evoked a storm of protest from Muslims all over India. However, as such
storms will, it passed, and soon enough this controversy was forgotten in the whirlwind of
perils and problems of the First World War.

VIII

The First World War

THE EARLY MONTHS of 1914 found me on another visit to Burma. I then took a step of
some importance in respect to my Ismaili followers. I advised them to undertake a
considerable measure of social and cultural assimilation. Burma, although annexed to the
British Empire and at this time under the control of the India Office, was a country in which
national, patriotic sentiment was strong, and nationalism a spontaneous, natural and
continuous growth. I was convinced that the only prudent and proper policy for my followers
was to identify themselves as closely as possible with the life of Burma socially and
politically, to give up their Indo-Saracen names, habits and customs and to adopt,

permanently and naturally, those of the people alongside whom they lived, and whose destiny
they shared.

From Burma I made a brief trip to Europe in that last spring and early summer of the old
epoch; and thence I went to East Africa. Somewhat to my surprise and greatly to the distress
and indignation of my followers there, the authorities in German East Africa requested me
not to visit their territory. While I was on my way to Africa, the Archduke Francis Ferdinand
and his wife were assassinated in the little Bosnian border town of Sarajevo; and the casus
belli had been provided. By the time I reached Zanzibar the situation had become critical; in
the last days of July and the first days of August there was an exchange of ever graver and
more grave telegrams. Russia and Germany were at war; the Germans invaded Belgium; and
on August fourth Britain declared war on Germany. I had no hesitations, no irresolution.
Ambitions, aspirations, hopes and interests narrowed down to one or two intensely personal,
solitary decisions. I had one overruling emotion — to go to England as fast as I could and
offer my services in whatever capacity they could best be used. I was in good health; I was
still young and strong; my place was with the British. I returned immediately and without
comment the insignia of the Prussian Order of the Crown (First Class), which the Kaiser had
conferred on me. I telegraphed instructions to my followers in and on the borders of all
British territories that they were to render all possible help and support to the British
authorities in their area. I offered my personal services to the British Resident in Zanzibar,
and I took the first steps in organizing, from among members of the Indian community, a
transport corps to assist in maintaining communications from the coast to the interior. Then I
made haste to get to England. There were rumors — well-founded as it proved — of a German
sea-raider at large in the Indian Ocean, and the authorities in Zanzibar asked me not to go to
Mombasa as I had intended and thence to England by the first available ship, but to proceed
by way of South Africa. From the Union I got passage to England, and I was in London by
mid-September. I had had no practical military experience, so it seemed to me that my
immediate contribution to the war effort was likely to be humble. I volunteered for service in
the ranks in any unit in the British or Indian Army. I called on Lord Kitchener, the Secretary
of State for War, whom I had known well in India and with whom I had served on the
Viceroy's Legislative Council more than a decade earlier; I urged that I should be enlisted as
a private in the Indian contingent then on its way to the Western Front.

Kitchener, however, whose knowledge and experience of the East were massive and
profound, had other views as to the sort of service I could render. He was fully cognizant of
both the perils and the possibilities latent in the involvement of Eastern, predominantly
Islamic, peoples in a conflict of these dimensions. Germany's intrigues and influence in
Constantinople had greatly increased in recent years; the great dream of a German hegemony
extending from Berlin to Baghdad was one of the many fantasies on which German
imperialist thinkers and teachers had dwelt eagerly and lovingly. The Turkish Government
seemed deeply disrupted and drained of the capacity to take independent and effective
decisions of its own. For Britain it was essential to retain control over the then vital artery of
Empire: the seaway through the Mediterranean, the Suez Canal, the Red Sea and the Indian
Ocean, which led not only to India but to Australia and New Zealand and to the Colonial

territories of Southeast Asia. In all this complex of political and strategic needs and
obligations, it seemed to the British Government that I held a position of considerable
importance. Soldiering in the ranks was not, Kitchener gave me firmly to understand, for me.

Most significant of all, it had not passed unnoticed by the British Government that I had won
and held the respect and trust of many important Turks. Lord Kitchener requested me to use
all my influence with the Turks to persuade them not to join the Central Powers, and to
preserve their neutrality. I discovered that Kitchener was by no means alone in his idea of the
sort of employment to which I could best be put. His opinion was shared and supported by
the Secretary of State for India, by the Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, and by the Prime
Minister, Mr. Asquith. Indeed even the King, when I had the honor of lunching with him,
referred to it.

Therefore while overtly I busied myself with rallying young Indians in England — of whom
there were considerable numbers -to volunteer for the Indian Field Ambulance Corps, and in
raising a comforts fund for them, discreetly and urgently I got in touch with the Turkish
Ambassador, Tawfiq Pasha. At my request he sent an invitation to the Young Turks, who had
assumed power in Turkey's revolution of 1908, to send a ministerial delegation to London to
enter into direct negotiations with His Majesty's Government. Britain was prepared, on her
own behalf and on behalf of Russia and her other allies, to give Turkey full guarantees and
assurances for the future.

We had high hopes of bringing off what would have been, fromevery point of view, a
diplomatic victory of first-rate importance. I was quite aware that my own emotions were
deeply involved. As a Muslim I was most anxious that Turkey should be spared the trials and
the horrors of renewed war, not against a ramshackle alliance of small Balkan states, but
against the mighty combination of some of the greatest industrial and military nations in the
world. The Turks had but lately emerged from their earlier ordeal; they were in desperate
need of a breathing space; it seemed impossible that they could enter a new struggle and not
face almost illimitable catastrophe. It had to be admitted that the Turks were justifiably
suspicious of "guarantees," however specific, offered by the Western Powers; they had had
too recent and too rueful an experience of similar guarantees which seemed to them promises
made only to be broken. Yet even allowing for the most cynically realistic appreciation of the
situation, as it existed in the last months of 1914, neutrality (which was all the Western
Powers asked of Turkey) would have given the Young Turks the time they needed in which
to carry out their program of social, economic and military reform.

Tawfiq Pasha was a key figure in our approaches. He had been for many years the Sultan
Abdul Hamid's Foreign Minister. The Young Turk Revolution had displaced him from that
office; nevertheless the new regime maintained their trust in a most experienced and capable
statesman. In London and other Western capitals he was held in the highest esteem.
Venerable, sage and shrewd, he was a good friend of mine; he and I trusted each other
implicitly. What was even more important, he was in full agreement with my attitude in this
business.

He took occasion immediately, however, to warn me that our negotiations would have had a
much greater chance of success if the Allies had asked Turkey to come in on their side rather
than proposed mere neutrality, for which at the end of the conflict nobody would thank her.
He went on to say that he was convinced also that Russia would never agree to Turkey's
joining the Allies, as such a step would put an end to all Russia's hopes of expansion at
Turkey's expense, either in the northeast, around Erzerum, or southward from the Black Sea.
In confidence I communicated these observations to Lord Kitchener. Within a few hours he
told me that the Allies had no desire to bring Turkey into the war on their side. In view of this
preliminary exchange, we entered negotiations under a considerable handicap. Nevertheless I
was an optimist for several days, and my optimism seemed far from groundless.

Suddenly it became known that two German warships, the Goeben and the Breslau, had
evaded Allied naval vigilance and were lying at anchor off Constantinople. Their presence
drastically altered the whole situation. The Turks accorded them hospitality and protection.
They were a visible sign of German naval vigor and capacity. Combined with the remarkable
moral ascendancy which had been established in Constantinople by the German Military
Mission, under its extremely able and resolute commander, General Liman von Sanders, the
ships presented the gravest possible menace to our hopes — lately so high — of maintaining
Turkish neutrality. By the close of 1914 the Central Powers were confident of a quick victory
on their own terms; an elderly Prussian general named von Hindenburg had inflicted a
crushing defeat on the immensely gallant but incompetently led Russian armies in the
marshes of Tannenberg in East Prussia; in the west the German armies, held almost within
the sight of Paris, had stabilized themselves along that six hundred-mile front which, with
pitiably little variation and at appalling cost of life on both sides, was to be maintained until
August, 1918; a solitary cruiser, the Emden, at large in the Indian Ocean, had inflicted
spectacular shipping losses on the Allies, and turned up impudently in Madras Roads.
Tragically misled by all these signs and portents dangled before their eyes by the exultant
Germans, the Turkish Government took the irrevocable step of declaring war on Russia. This
automatically involved the Ottoman Empire in war with Great Britain and France.

To a strategist like Churchill this decision offered an opportunity (which was never fully
seized) of ending the slaughterous deadlock on the Western Front and of striking at Germany
and Austria from the southeast. To me at that moment it was a shattering blow. Its sharpness
and severity were mortifying in the extreme; and when the Turkish Government, striving to
put a respectable and popular facade on what was in fact unprovoked, inexcusable
aggression, proclaimed this a jehad, a holy war against Christendom, my distress and
disappointment crystallized into bitter resentment against the irreligious folly of Turkey's
rulers. My resentment was given a razor edge by my knowledge of how near we had been to
success in our negotiations. The fruit was just about to be plucked from the tree when not
merely the tree but the whole garden was blown to pieces.

I reacted strongly. I joined with other Muslim leaders in an earnest appeal to the whole
Islamic world to disregard the socalled jehad, to do their duty and stand loyally with and
beside the Western Allies — especially Britain and France in whose overseas possessions the
Muslim population could be counted in many millions. On my own responsibility I published

a manifesto setting out my view of the grievous error committed by Turkey. I pointed out that
the Ottoman Government and such forces as it would dispose of were bound to be regarded
as pawns in Germany's aggressive, imperialist strategy; that in declaring war on Britain and
the Allies the Turks were acting under the orders of their German masters; and that the Sultan
and his advisers had been compelled by German officers and other non-Muslims to take this
step. I stressed the fact that neither Turkey in particular nor Islam in general need have any
apprehension about the purely defensive actions of the Western Powers.

"The British and Russian Empires and the French Republic," I said, "have offered to
guarantee Turkey all her territories in complete independence on the sole condition that she
remain neutral. Turkey is the trustee of Islam, and the whole world is content to let her hold
the holy cities in her keeping. All men must see that Turkey's position was not imperiled in
any way and that she has not gone to war for the cause of Islam or in defense of her
independence. Thus our only duty as Muslims is to remain loyal, faithful and obedient to our
temporal and secular allegiance."

It is not, I think, an unjustifiable claim that these words of mine, coming when they did and
whence they did, had a genuine and steadying effect when it was needed. The vast majority
of Muslim subjects of the Western Powers faithfully preserved their allegiance; Muslim
soldiers fought and died alongside their Christian comrades on battlefields all over the world.
The whole ugly idea of a jehad, manufactured and exploited by the Kaiser and his advisers
for their own purposes, collapsed and little more was heard of it after the early months of
1915.

However, I do still regard the failure of our attempt to open my negotiations with the Sublime
Porte in the last months of 1914 as a tragic turning point in modem history. Had Turkey
remained neutral, the history of the Near East and of the whole Islamic world, in the past
forty years, might have been profoundly different. What had been Islam's natural center and
rallying point for hundreds of years, the Sultanate in Constantinople, was destroyed. Turkey,
as we shall see later, emerged from her tribulations under the inspiring leadership of Mustafa
Kemal, restored and purified in spirit, but shorn of her Empire. Millions of Arabs, who had
lived for centuries under the tolerant suzerainty of the Turks, discovered, not only on the high
plateau of central Arabia but in the lands of the fertile crescent, the joys and sorrows, the
difficulties and the ardors of nationalism. And the British Empire, in the years from 1918 on,
fell heir — by accident rather than by intention — to that Near and Middle Eastern hegemony
so long exercised by the Ottoman Empire; and to vilayet and pashalik succeeded mandatory
government. French involvement in Syria, the Greek adventures and disasters in Asia Minor,
the clash of Zionism and Arab aspirations, Ibn Saud's carving of a new kingdom in Arabia,
the emergence of the Sharifi family from a local chieftainship in Mecca to the foundation of
ruling dynasties in two kingdoms — all these complex consequences and many more were to
flow from the Young Turks' rejection, under German pressure, of the advances made to them
at the end of 1914.

Kitchener, whatever doubts may have begun to make themselves felt in early 1915 as to his
capacity to organize and conduct Britain's war effort in the West, was certainly alert to every

contingency in the East. It was not long before he sent for me with another proposal, for a
diplomatic or quasi-diplomatic task, which had Cabinet backing, and indeed the personal
approval and interest of King George V. This concerned Egypt, where the political situation
was confused and delicate. Kitchener himself had been peremptorily recalled to take up his
duties at the War Office, when he was about to board the cross-Channel steamer on his way
back to his post as British Representative in Cairo. Egypt was nominally part of the domain
of the Ottoman Emperor, the Khedive was nominally his viceroy. This status had been
preserved — in name, though in nothing else — after the British Occupation in 1882. As every
Egyptian statesman and politician for many years past has had occasion to point out times
without number, the British Occupation of Egypt was always said — by the British — to be
purely temporary. Yet somehow in defiance of logic and in defiance of promises and
undertakings, it continued; until in the early years of this century, as I have recorded in an
earlier chapter, Egypt looked to all intents and purposes like a British colony.

In the First World War, as in the Second World War, Egypt was a military base of the highest
strategic and logistical importance for Britain and her allies. By the beginning of 1915 the
number of British, Indian and Dominion troops stationed in Egypt was large and growing
steadily. Alexandria was a great naval harbor and dockyard. The Suez Canal was a vital
strategic waterway. On its Sinai banks, however, although Sinai was theoretically part of
Egypt, were units of the Turkish Army, whose role at this time was purely static and
defensive. But British strategic thinking had not cast Egypt for any quiescent, nonactive role.
It was to be the base whence every offensive against Turkey was to be launched. Already
thousands of transports were bringing to Alexandria, Port Said, Kantara and Ismailia the men
from Britain, from Australia and New Zealand and from India, who were to fight and die,
with unforgettable heroism and to no avail, on a barren, rocky little peninsula that guarded
the European shore of the Dardanelles Straits leading to Constantinople. As great a degree of
certainty and stability as possible in Egypt's internal political situation was, from the military
point of view, a prerequisite if this huge operational base was to be preserved in good order.

The confusion began at the top. There was no Egyptian political leader of any caliber, and the
Khedive himself, Abbas Hilmi, was in, of all places, Constantinople. Since he had not
returned to Egypt when called, it was perhaps inevitable that Allied opinion should believe
him to be pro-German and that Allied propaganda should portray him as such in the crudest
terms. However, I came to know Abbas Hilmi well in later years during his long exile in
Europe, and I am convinced that he was wronged and misjudged. I developed a real affection
for him and a real admiration for the clarity and brilliance of his intellect. He told me what I
am convinced was the true story of his "defection." Shortly before the Turkish declaration of
war, he was attacked by a would-be assassin and wounded in the face and jaw. For the rest of
his life he carried the heavy scar which was the effect of this attack.

From 1920 until his sudden death at the end of the Second World War, I saw a great deal of
Abbas Hilmi and we became very firm friends. He had a beautiful yacht called Nimat Ullah
which was more or less his home on the Riviera during the winter months and the early
spring; and he usually spent the late spring and summer in Paris and Switzerland. I often
lunched with him aboard the Nimat Ullah, and in Switzerland I saw a great deal of him. Of

one thing I am convinced; he was never anti-British, and he had the greatest affection for his
English friends. Naturally when he was Khedive he greatly resented the fact that, without any
legal right or authority and no moral claim to power and prestige, the British occupation
authorities were treating his country as a colony and he himself more or less as a glorified
maharajah. This brought him constantly into conflict with Lord Cromer, who was in fact
though not in name the absolute ruler of Egypt. However, he always told me that Cromer was
a great gentleman, that his word was his bond and that however bitter their personal relations
because of their political differences, he for his part never lost his respect for Lord Cromer.
With Lord Kitchener the personal differences had led to bitterness, and he never forgave
Kitchener for the strife between them. He told me that he thought it most unfortunate that
Lord Kitchener was never grateful to him for having helped him to become Sirdar of the
Egyptian Army at the beginning. When Kitchener's predecessor retired, there were two or
three candidates for the post; and Abbas Hilmi maintained that he himself sent a telegram to
Queen Victoria particularly asking for Kitchener's appointment.

He told me that had he not been wounded, he would certainly have escaped from
Constantinople. He had no wish nor desire to remain, and as soon as he got better he wanted
to go to Egypt; but the British authorities were by no means keen to have him there. It was his
opinion that while he was shown that he was not wanted, he was at the same time made the
scapegoat. However there was no bitterness toward the English either as a people or as
individuals. He accepted the whole episode as a game of cricket in which he had been the
loser; and as a good sportsman he said, "The game is over and done with — now let's have a
drink together."

Though he was a good Muslim, a real believer who said his prayers regularly, he also had a
great admiration for the Catholic hierarchy and was in touch with them in Paris; and I believe
that his donations to their charities and good works were on a large scale. He always told me
that the Church of Rome could do far more for their friends when they were in trouble than
any freemasonry. He was a brilliant financier; he made a large fortune for himself even after
he had lost the greater part of his original capital in Egypt. He had, however, a curious trait.
After his death it became apparent that he had often put his money on the wrong horse.
Shrewdly suspicious of all respectable bankers, high-class agents de change on the Continent
or stockbrokers in England, he was yet capable of being taken in by a lot of fourth-rate
intriguers, and he would hand over large sums of money to them for all kinds of wild-goose
projects. Apart from this, he had some extremely doubtful characters in his entourage —
hangers-on who won his confidence, goodness knows how. I believe that after his death his
heirs found that he was nothing like as rich as he had been and that a considerable portion of
his fortune had disappeared. I think I can explain how this must have happened. Before and
during the Second World War he often told me that in view of the uncertainty of the future
and the possible difficulties of movement or of getting control of his investments in America
or Canada or even in South America (though he knew all the tricks of forming holding
companies in harmless places such as Cuba or Tangiers and transferring large blocks of
stocks and securities to them), he felt that he might be stranded in wartime without getting the

benefits of his investments. He dreaded the possibility of years of want and difficulty in
which, like Midas, he might be full of gold and yet die of hunger.

In telling me these things he was really advising me to follow his example. I asked him
therefore how he got around it. Was it by having a considerable part of his fortune with him
in safes and vaults? Naturally I pointed out that bank notes in such amounts in wartime would
be a real hindrance, whereas gold in the quantities that he wanted would be too heavy and not
practicable except for comparatively small sums. Ah, he said, but the finest type of jewelry —
that which is the very best and free from taint — like gold maintains its value. If it is perfect —
large or small — jewelry can always find a purchaser; and it has the advantage that its
possessor has a large fortune at his disposal wherever he happens to be. I naturally concluded
from this argument that he had vast sums invested in jewelry, particularly since he frequently
urged me to do likewise.

He died of heart failure suddenly about three o'clock one morning in an apartment in Geneva;
and it was not until much later, about mid-morning, that people came and opened his various
boxes and vaults. I naturally informed his son and his heir of what he had told me about
having large amounts of jewelry with him, but to my surprise and rather to my distress his
son told me that they found nothing except small amounts of cash. There are two possible
solutions: first, that if he had had the jewelry he had sold it at the end of the Second World
War when he thought there was no immediate possibility of a third war, or, second, that it had
vanished during the hours between his death and the official opening of his personal effects.

To return to his miscalculations in 1914-1915, in the fog of war the Allies could not be
expected to have any accurate knowledge either of Abbas Hilmi's real views or intentions, or
of the way in which those intentions were frustrated. The result in Egypt, however, was
something near chaos; the confusion was deepest about Muslim opinion, and for the reasons
which I have outlined it was essential to maintain the internal security of Egypt.

My mission therefore was to clarify and stabilize opinion. I was asked to take a colleague
with me, and I therefore turned to an old and dear friend, Sir Abbas Ali Baig, who was then
the Indian member of the permanent Council which advised the Secretary of State for India in
London. We set off for Cairo as soon as we could; and we were received there with almost
royal honors. We were there as the official guests of the British Commander in Chief; and we
addressed ourselves forthwith to a delicate and difficult task, with many ramifications into
many levels of Egyptian society.

First there was the palace to be won over, or rather the principal personages in the Egyptian
ruling dynasty. There was the Sultan who had been nominated in Abbas Hilmi's absence;
there was his brother, Prince Fuad, who later became King Fuad I, who had both German and
Italian affiliations; there were several other influential princes, and most important of all the
Sultan's son who was married to the Khedive's sister. There were the Ulema, the Muslim
divines who were the heads of A1 Azhar University, the great, intensely conservative and
traditional theological school which is a center of religious life not only in Egypt but in the
whole of Islam. And there were the ordinary people of Egypt — the literate who sit in their

cafes endlessly and eagerly discussing every edition of every newspaper, and the villages and
peasants, the fellahin who from time immemorial have been the real source of Egypt's
strength.

We conceived of our task as one of explanation and exhortation. We had to convince those to
whom we spoke, in private as well as in public, that not only their interest but their duty, as
good Muslims, lay in supporting and sustaining the cause of the Allies. I could, of course,
speak with authority, from recent and personal knowledge; I pointed out that the Turks had
had every possible chance of fair terms from the Allies, that Great Britain and France were
willing to exert all their influence on Russia to safeguard Turkey's interests for the future, and
most important of all, that neutrality would have given Turkey that breathing space she
needed. While Europe was engaged on its grim process of selfdestruction, Turkey would
have had time to reorganize the whole loose, vast system of provincial administration, to
conciliate the increasing discontent of the Arab nationalists, and to carry out all those social,
political and economic reforms which would have strengthened and unified the Empire. All
these advantages had been lost in a single gambler's throw; gamblers, after all, are not
winners, and history shows that political punters have as little chance of success as punters on
the racecourse or at the casino.

Our mission produced the effects for which we had hoped. The internal stability of Egypt
throughout the First World War and the assistance that this tranquillity gave to the Allies
were factors of notable and continuing importance right up to the time of General Allenby's
final victorious advance across Palestine and Syria to Aleppo and the foothills of the
Anatolian mountains.

From Egypt I made my way to India, having visited the Indian forces — already of
considerable strength — who were encamped in the Canal Zone, having encouraged them
(many, of course, were Muslims) and having exhorted them to do their duty, to fight loyally
for the King-Emperor, the Sovereign to whose service they were bound by oath. In India I
realized — by the volume of enthusiastic praise and thanks that greeted me, from the Viceroy
downward - that we had done a good job. One particularly agreeable personal consequence
of this mission to Egypt was the strengthening of my affection for Sir Abbas Ali Baig, who
became and thenceforward remained one of my closest, lifelong friends. In a new generation
his sons, incidentally, are no less distinguished public servants than he was; one is now
Pakistan's Minister in Moscow and the other, formerly permanent head of the Foreign Office
in Karachi, is now High Commissioner in Ottawa.

Later in the year I went back to London, and once more was heartened by the sense of
success in our mission in Egypt. The Kinghimself, the Prime Minister and other members of
the Cabinet thanked me warmly, and I was genuinely gratified to feel that I had been of real
service.

In April 1916, His Majesty accorded me an honor of very special personal significance. He
sanctioned the grant to me of a salute of eleven guns and the rank and precedence of a First
Class Ruling Prince of the Bombay Presidency. The end of the Indian Empire, and the vast

political and social changes consequent on that passing, have deprived this gesture of any
contemporary meaning, but in the circumstances and conditions of 1916 it was a high honor
and a most generous and thoughtful action on the part of the King. The salute granted to a
Ruling Prince, and the number of guns in it, was an important matter of precedence and
prestige; there was only one previous instance of such a salute being granted to anyone who
was not a territorial Prince, and that was to Sir Salar Jung, the Prime Minister of Hyderabad,
who in 1857 was chiefly responsible for keeping Central India and the Deccan loyal to
British authority. The Times, commenting on this honor in an editorial, observed: "It has
fallen to the Aga Khan to serve in vastly wider fields than Sir Salar Jung and to exert much
more than local or provincial influence in a crisis of British rule even greater than that of the
mutiny."

Inevitably sorrow and loss came, as the result of war, to me and to my family, as to so many
other families across the width of the world in those harsh times. My cousin, Aga Farrokh
Shah, while engaged at my request on a political mission to the tribes and my own Ismaili
followers in Kerman, was assassinated at the instigation of German agents. India's losses on
the battlefield in Flanders and in Mesopotamia were grievous. I myself was laid low with a
difficult, painful and protracted illness. Early in 19161 began to be aware of considerable
ocular distress and difficulty; my pulse was extremely irregular, and although I was on no
diet and was eating well, I began to lose weight rapidly. A physician in Paris diagnosed my
malady as Graves' disease, of which the symptoms were protruding eyes and a small goiter. I
went to Switzerland to the famous Dr. Kocher at Berne, who was the greatest contemporary
authority on all forms of goiter, to see if my case was operable. After I had been under
observation in a Swiss sanatorium for several weeks, I was told that it was inoperable.

Frankly I seemed to be going downhill fast; for eighteen months and more I stayed in
Switzerland, making no progress at all but rather deteriorating steadily.

Suddenly the British Government took urgent and alarmed cognizance of what subsequently
became known, in Swiss legal history, as the affair of the Lucerne bomb. The German Secret
Service did not believe that I was really ill. They thought, however, that their country's cause
would be well served were I put out of the way for good. They arranged to have a bomb
thrown at me; and to make the operation certain of success they also arranged, with typical
German thoroughness, to have my breakfast coffee poisoned. The bomb did not go off; I did
not drink the coffee. For years after the war ended the Swiss painstakingly investigated the
whole episode and the inquiry attained a good deal of notoriety at the time. In 1917, however,
all that the British Government saw fit to do was to request me to leave Switzerland. So I
returned to Paris.

My host of friends there, including those of the American colony to whom I have referred
elsewhere, were thoroughly shocked and alarmed; I was (so they told me later) in their view a
lost case. For myself, I still kept hope — though it flickered feebly. It seemed to me that many
famous doctors had seen me in Switzerland and in France. All kinds of treatments, batteries
of drugs, had been tried on me to no avail. Then a Professor Pierremarie examined me and
produced a startlingly novel diagnosis. I had not been suffering from goiter at all. He began a

fresh line of treatment, and within a year I was thoroughly on the mend. One effect remained,
however, in that my eyes never quite resumed their normal position.

However, this long illness meant that I was of necessity withdrawn from all public activity
for more than three years, until the summer of 1919.

It was a long seclusion which I ameliorated slightly in its later stages by writing a book,
called India in Transition, which set forth my views on the future of India and of all Southeast
Asia, and to which I shall have occasion to refer later.

Part Three

THE MIDDLE YEARS
IX

The End of the Ottoman Empire

THE WORLD to which I, restored at last to health and eager to get back into harness again,
returned in that summer of 1919 had undergone vast and far-reaching changes in the three
years of my seclusion: the collapse of the Czarist regime in Russia, and the passage granted
by the Germans to Lenin and his fellow conspirators to let them loose in their native land; the
Treaty of Brest-Litovsk; the complete defeat of the Central Powers on all fronts in 1918; the
abdication of the Kaiser and the end of the Austro-Hungarian Empire; the emergence of the
militant Socialist revolutions in sundry European countries; in the Near and Middle East the
end of the Ottoman Empire. President Wilson seemed in those months an almost apocalyptic
figure of deliverance, with his doctrine of "self determination" for all peoples. Everywhere the
war had unleashed huge tides of political feeling which were not to be smoothed or subdued.
The peacemakers assembled in Paris to contemplate, with profoundly mingled and
complicated emotions, a world scene bristling with difficulties and dangers, an awe-inspiring
chaos which the peoples of many nations looked to them to resolve immediately and tidily
into an ordered millennium. Relief at the end of the long, bloodstained nightmare of the war
mingled with a naive but vigorous optimism. Peace was to usher in an epoch of unmarred
political, social and economic tranquillity. Even so august a figure as my old friend, Lord
Curzon, then Leader of the House of Lords, was affected by the prevailing mood, and in his
speech in the House of Lords, in November, 1918, announcing the Armistice he intoned with
fervor Shelley's lines which begin: "The world's great age begins anew."

India was far from unaffected by all that had happened. In 1917 when the conflict was at its
sternest, there was a general feeling in Britain, official and unofficial, that India's contribution
to the Empire's war effort, the valor of her soldiers, the staunchness of her leaders and people,
earned more than formal recognition. On the strong recommendation of the Viceroy and of
the Secretary of State for India, Edwin Montagu, the Government on August 20, 1917,
published a statement of its aims in respect to India.

"The policy of His Majesty's Government," said this statement, "is that of increasing
association of Indians in every branch of the administration and the gradual development of

self-governing institutions with a view to the progressive realization of responsible
government in India as an integral part of the British Empire."

This was a momentous pronouncement. It marked the explicit commitment of the then British
Government and its successors to a radical departure from what, in conflict with the
principles of the Act of 1 833, had grown to be the basic and accepted purposes of British rule
in India. In the earlier schemes of administrative reform, the Cross-Lansdowne proposals of
the 1890's and the Morley-Minto of the early 1900's, there had been no hint of any intention
to transfer fundamental power and responsibility from British to Indian hands; self-
government in India had never been mentioned. Now, there it was in words that all could
read. I have been told that in the original draft which went to the Cabinet the words "self-
government" were used; Lord Curzon — of all people -changed them to "responsible
government." He thus made it inevitable that when the constitutional reforms to implement
the declaration were introduced, they took the pattern which came to be known as "dyarchy";
for the word "responsible" implies in those who exercise it, responsibility to someone — to
whom? To Governor or Viceroy, and thus to Britain and British Parliament, or to the Indian
electorate and people? Dyarchy, workable compromise though it was sometimes made, was
bound to present this dilemma to ministers, both in the provinces and at the center. It was the
expression, in terms of practical and day-to-day administration of that almost schizophrenic
duality of outlook — that split between ideal intention and workaday application — which
henceforth characterized the British attitude toward India. Schizophrenia is not a basis for
happy relations; in it, however, is to be found much of the explanation of the estrangement,
deepening to embittered hostility which ended only, and then with miraculous swiftness and
completeness, with the final and total withdrawal of British rule in India.

In 1919 all this lay in the future, and I for my part was taken up with a wider, bolder vision in
which — formulated first in my book, India in Transition — I sought to interest everyone who
had any responsibility for Indo-British relations, principally, of course, Edwin Montagu, the
Secretary of State. Edwin Montagu was a Jew, totally assimilated into the British pattern and
way of life, brilliant and lovable, a member of that interlocked Montagu-Samuel-Isaacs
Anglo-Jewish group of families which has made so notable a contribution to British life in
the past half century.

I was eager in 1919 that under British inspiration and guidance there should be built up a
South Asian federation of self-governing states extending from the Malayan Peninsula to the
confines of Egypt — a federation on what may loosely be termed Commonwealth lines, and
within the framework of the British Empire (Commonwealth, of course, was a word which
had not come into use in 1919). It seemed to me — it still seems to me now — that this was
then a feasible scheme and a better solution to world troubles than that adopted. Had the
British Government accepted it, and had it been executed resolutely, I am certain that there
would have developed in southern Asia a strong power — an association of powers — in
which healthy democratic institutions would have evolved naturally and easily and which
would have provided effective support for Britain and (as it turned out) the United States and
the Southern Dominions in an hour of grave need and a permanent bulwark against
aggression.

In a measure these proposals of mine were a fulfillment and an extension of ideas and hopes
which had been implanted in my mind during my years of close association with Gokhale. In
the autumn of 1914 when I hastened back to London from Africa to make as effective a
contribution as I could to the war effort, I was met by Gokhale, who, though extremely ill at
the time with diabetes — and constitutionally averse to London's mild, foggy climate — had
prolonged his stay there in order to see me. Amid the pressure of a great deal of other work,
we saw much of each other and discussed freely and frankly all our hopes and fears for India.
We strove to compose a draft memorandum which we intended to address to the Government
embodying the very large measure of agreement which we had hammered out in our
conversations.

Early in 1915 Gokhale was dead. But before he died he completed his political testament
which he addressed to me, with the request that I should make it public in two years' time,
when (as he hoped) the war might be over and India capable of facing the supreme task of
working out her own destiny.

In due course I published Gokhale's testament as he bade; and on my own behalf I added a
memorandum pleading that after the war East Africa might be reserved for Indian
colonization and development in recognition of India's war services.

However these were and are dreams of what might have been. History has taken a different
road. The final scheme of reform, as it was promulgated in the Government of India Act of
1919, was very different, on a far smaller scale, and limited only to India. And, alas, it
produced not the peaceful, gradual evolution, slow step by step, toward responsible
government that had been hoped for, but instead a phase of extreme unrest and violent
political turbulence. Moderate, constitutional-minded leaders in Indian politics, such as my
friends Sir Pherozeshah Mehta and Gokhale, were dead. A new generation sought for new
methods of achieving much more farreaching aims — and in a hurry.

Even before Parliament considered the Government of India Bill, the situation in India had
taken several turns for the worse. A committee set up under the chairmanship of Lord Justice
Rowlatt to consider the juridical aspects of political agitation issued its report which
recommended the establishment of special courts to deal with acts of sedition. The report had
a hostile reception. The example of Ireland was not lost on India. Extremism on both sides
took charge. The Rowlatt Committee's recommendations were accepted by Parliament; and
as soon as the bill embodying them became law Congress declared a hartal, a general strike,
in protest. More than once during these harsh and distressing months, I urged restraint, not
only on the part of my followers but of the Muslim community in general; less than a
fortnight later, however, occurred the dreadful "Amritsar incident" which set back by many
years any hope of constructive and abiding amity between Britain and India.

The shock of this episode and the bitter memories it left behind poisoned relations for years. I
suppose that if I had been the sort of person to despair, I should have despaired then. But I
was so actively engaged in seeking from the British Government a clear and honorable line of

conduct on a matter involving the highest political principles that despair was a luxury for
which I had neither the will nor the time.

One effect of dyarchy was that it involved the transference of a good deal of authority in
internal matters in India from the center to responsible officials in the provinces. The effects
of a centralized bureaucracy were as notable in the India Office in London as they were in
Simla or New Delhi. I was asked to be a member of a committee in London charged with the
task of decentralizing and reorganizing the work of the India Office. It was mainly a matter of
clearing some of the channels by which the Secretary of State got his information and
defended his department and himself in the eyes of those to whom he was ultimately
responsible, the elected members of the British House of Commons. It was hard work, but it
gave me a clear picture from the inside of the workings of the great administrative machine
by which a modem State is conducted.

It coincided, as I had indicated, with a period of strenuous political activity, in which I
directed my efforts mainly to trying to prevent the complete dismemberment of the Ottoman
Empire and to establishing a peace settlement in the Near and Middle East which would be
not only just and equitable but also practical.

I must therefore describe in some detail the background to the swirl of political and
diplomatic work in which I was caught up. One of the countless major questions which faced
the victorious Powers in the immediate postwar period was. What was to be done about the
Ottoman Empire, over vast regions of which the Allies were, by the end of 1918, in military
occupation? It was true that the Turks retained control of their own homeland, Anatolia, and
of the historic, ancient capital, Constantinople, but from Tripolitania in the west to Kurdistan
in the east, from north of Aleppo to Wadi Haifa, in enormous territories whose populations,
in a great diversity of races and culture but predominantly Muslim, had once owed allegiance
to the Sultan of Turkey, the controlling authority was now an Allied Military Governor.

In the heat of the war many promises of spoils in the hour of victory — spoils to be tom off
the vanquished body of Turkey — had been made; by the beginning of 1919 few were capable
of fulfillment, nearly all were irreconcilable one with another. The MacMahon letters,
addressed by the acting High Commissioner in Egypt in 1915 to the Sharif Husan in Mecca,
could not possibly be reconciled with the Balfour Declaration issued in 1917; both conflicted
sharply with the Sykes-Picot agreement, by which Britain and France shared out huge areas
of the Ottoman Empire as "spheres of influence." The most flagrantly impossible undertaking
of all was that Constantinople (since Czarist Russia had retained an historic interest in what
had once been the Graeco-Roman city of Byzantium) should be given to Russia. This at least
could be ignored, since the Bolshevik leaders had made their own peace arrangements with
the Germans in the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk and since the Soviet regime and the Western
Allies were in a state of undisguised hostility. But for Turkey as a whole the hopes of a
tolerable peace settlement looked slender.

Almost all the British political leaders who were to have any influence over the peace
discussions were markedly anti-Turkish. Lloyd George, the Prime Minister, was a friend and

admirer of Venizelos, the Greek leader; he saw certain similarities in historical experience
and outlook between Greece and his own Wales; he was therefore enthusiastically pro-Greek,
and though not actively anti- Turkish, he was quite indifferent to the fate of the Ottoman
Empire. Arthur Balfour, the signatory of the letter to Lord Rothschild announcing that it was
Britain's intention to establish a National Home in Palestine for the Jews, was openly and
actively pro-Zionist, and he was also extremely prejudiced against the Turks historically and
racially.

Now Zionism, I may say in passing, was something of which I had had long and by no means
unsympathetic experience. My friend of the early and strenuous days in Bombay, Professor
Haffkine, was a Zionist — as were many other brilliant and talented Russian Jews of his
generation who escaped into Western Europe from the harsh and cruel conditions imposed
upon them by Czarist Russia. Haffkine, like many of the earlier Zionists, hoped that some
arrangement could be made with the Turkish Sultan whereby peaceful Jewish settlement
could be progressively undertaken in the Holy Land — a settlement of a limited number of
Jews from Europe (mainly from the densely populated areas then under Russian rule) in
agricultural and peasant holdings; the capital was to be provided by wealthier members of the
Jewish community, and the land would be obtained by purchase from the Sultan's subjects.

As Haffkine propounded it, I thought this sort of Zionism useful and practical. It contained no
hint, of course, of the establishment of a Jewish National State, and it seemed to me worth
putting before the Turkish authorities. There were, after all, precedents for population
resettlement of this kind within the Ottoman Empire, notably the Circassians — of Muslim
faith, but of purely European blood -who were established by Abdul Hamid in villages, in
what is today the Kingdom of Jordan, with excellent results. Abdul Hamid could well have
done with the friendship and alliance of world Jewry; and on the broader ground of principle,
there is every natural reason for the Jews and the Arabs, two Semitic peoples with a great
deal in common, to be close friends rather than the bitter enemies which unfortunately for
both sides the events of the past thirty years or so have made them. In furtherance of what
was then a shared interest in Zionism, Haffkine gave me, when I first went to Paris in 1898,
letters of introduction to a number of his Jewish friends including the savant and Rabbi Zadek
Kahn, * and through him I met the famous Baron Edmond de Rothschild. Baron Edmond was
a princely benefactor of the early Zionist experiments; some of the first settlements in
Palestine were financed by him and owed their ultimate prosperity to his generous support
and interest. When I called on him I was introduced to his two sons, James, then an
undergraduate at Cambridge, and Maurice, a boy in the uniform of a naval cadet. Baron
Edmond remained my friend until his death; and for well over fifty years now both James
Rothschild and Baron Maurice de Rothschild have been good and close friends of mine.

* There are sometimes complications in nomenclature. Long afterward in London I was
introduced to a well-known American society woman, Mrs. Corrigan, by a friend of mine
simply as "Aga Khan" with no titles and no further explanation. Brightly smiling Mrs.
Corrigan said that she was a great friend of my brother, Otto Kahn, of New York's
Metropolitan Opera House!

Rabbi Kahn prepared a statement of his and his friends' ideas on Jewish settlement in
Palestine. It was an elaborate plan for colonization on a scale and in a manner which would
have helped and strengthened Turkey; and one of its most logical claims to consideration was
that the Ottoman Empire was not a national state but multinational and multiracial. With the
Rabbi's proposal I made my approaches to Abdul Hamid through Munir Pasha, the Turkish
Ambassador in Paris, and through Izzet Bey, the Sultan's confidential secretary. However, the
scheme, good or bad as it may have been, was turned down by the Sultan, and I heard no
more of it. I must say its rejection has always seemed to me one of Abdul Hamid's greatest
blunders.

But just as the defeated Turkey of 1917-1918 was a different country from the Ottoman
Empire of the nineties, so the Zionism of 1917-1918 and on was, of course, a very different
matter. And the Zionists were only one group among many, anxious to extract all they could
from the carve-up of Turkey. Arab nationalism was scarcely less strongly in the ascendant,
and it possessed many powerful friends and zealous advocates in and near the British
Government. Sir Gilbert Clayton, T. E. Lawrence and many other socalled "political officers"
who had served in the Middle East had — I must say, from my own knowledge — encouraged
Arab nationalism in and out of season, sometimes openly and sometimes secretly, long before
the fall of Turkey. The British had already established a military administration in Palestine.
The French advanced the remarkable claim that they had an historic right to protect the Holy
Places in Jerusalem. The Greeks, encouraged by another group of romantic, philhellene
Englishmen, were in a mood of dangerous expansionism. And at the very heart of real power
in the Peace Conference, Clemenceau had no love for the Turks; and President Wilson, in the
one interview which I had with him, frankly admitted that he really knew very little about the
whole problem.

Almost the only support on the side of the victors that Turkey could muster was Indian. The
greater part of Muslim interest in India in the fate of Turkey was natural and spontaneous,
and there was a considerable element of sincere non-Muslim agitation, the object of which,
apart from the natural revolt of any organized Asiatic body against the idea of European
imperialism, was further to consolidate and strengthen Indian nationalism in its struggle
against the British.

The reasons for Muslim concern were profound and historic. Turkey stood almost alone in
the world as the sole surviving independent Muslim nation, with all its shortcomings; the
Imperial regime in Constantinople was a visible and enduring reminder of the temporal
greatness of Islam's achievements. In the Khalifate there was too, for all of the Sunni sect or
persuasion, a spiritual link of the utmost significance. As the war drew to its close, anxiety
had intensified in India in regard to the safety of the Holy Places of Islam and the future of
the Khalifate. Gandhi, who had succeeded my old and dear friend, Gokhale, as leader of
Congress' political movement and organization, shrewdly seized what he saw to be a chance
of maintaining and heightening anti-British sentiment throughout the whole subcontinent.

The storm of agitation that swept India on this issue was formidable. The Indian delegates at
the Peace Conference, the Maharajah of Bikaner and Lord Sinha, heartily and sincerely
supported by Edwin Montagu, the Secretary of State for India, made an emphatic protest

against the various proposals for the partition of Turkey and the practical dissolution of the
Khalifate that were being eagerly canvassed around and about the conference.

It had been decided to settle the fate of defeated Germany first. This thorny task was
accomplished in considerable haste, and the Treaty of Versailles was signed on June 28,

1919. Thereafter protracted discussions continued about the treatment of the other vanquished
nations. My friend Syed Amir Ali and I began an energetic campaign to put the real issues, so
far as Turkey was concerned, before British and indeed world public opinion. I had private
interviews with numerous influential statesmen, together we wrote long letters to The Times;
on every possible public and private occasion we made our views known.

We drew vigorous attention to certain specific pledges given by the Prime Minister, and in a
letter to The Times quoted these pledges verbatim:

"We are not fighting," Lloyd George had said, "to deprive Turkey of its capital or of the rich
and renowned lands of Asia Minor and Thrace. While we do not challenge the maintenance
of the Turkish Empire in the homelands of the Turkish race with its capital at Constantinople,
the passage between the Mediterranean and the Black Sea being internationalized and
neutralized, Arabia, Armenia, Mesopotamia, Syria and Palestine are in our judgment entitled
to a recognition of their separate national condition."

We tried to sum up the outlook of those for whom we knew we had a right to speak:

What do the Muslims want? What do we plead for? Neither they nor we ask for any new
status for Turkey. We consider it, however, our duty to urge, for the fair name of England,
nay of the British Empire, that the pledge the Prime Minister in the name of England gave to
the world, and in particular to the world of Islam, should be maintained; and that the Turkish
Sovereign, as the Khalif of the vast Sunni congregation, should be left in absolute possession
of Constantinople, Thrace and Asia Minor stretching from the north of Syria proper along the
Aegean coast to the Black Sea — a region predominantly Turkish in race. It would, in our
opinion, be a cruel act of injustice to wrench any portion of this tract from Turkish
sovereignty to satisfy the ambitions of any other people.

Instead of bringing peace to Western Asia, such a settlement will sow the seeds of constant
wars, the effect of which cannot be expected to remain confined to the country where they
happen to be waged. For the defection of the adventurers who dragged their stricken people,
who had already undergone great misery, into the world war, Turkey has been sufficiently
punished by the secular expropriation of some of her richest provinces. But we submit that
the maintenance of the Ottoman Sovereign' spiritual suzerainty in these countries, whilst
maintaining his prestige and thus conciliating Muslim feeling, would be the means of making
the position of the Muslim rulers or governors of those countries unimpugnable. But so far as
Thrace, Constantinople and the homelands of the Turkish race are concerned, Muslim feeling
is absolutely opposed to any interference under any shape with the Sultan' sovereignty.

In India itself, as the months wore on, and as the time came near for signing a treaty with
Turkey, the agitation grew to such proportions and was of so unanimous a character as

gravely to worry the Viceroy, Lord Chelmsford and the Secretary of State, Edwin Montagu
(whose personal sympathies, as I well knew, were warmly engaged on the Turkish or Asiatic
side). Most of all they were disturbed at the thought that the Montagu-Chelmsford reforms,
on which such high hopes had been pinned, were to be launched in practice into this
atmosphere of turbulence and hostility.

In the Viceroy' Legislative Council it was proposed that I should be sent to London as the
leader of a deputation to the Prime Minister, representing the views not only of Muslims but
of the whole articulate population of India.

The other members of the deputation were the president of the Khilafat movement, Mr.
Chatani; one of India' most eminent advocates, Hassan Imam; and Dr. Ansari, a leading
member of Congress. Lloyd George saw us, but we realized that our mission was doomed to
failure, for meanwhile the Turkish treaty, known to history as the Treaty of Sevres, was being
prepared, with strangely little regard for the realities which, within a few years, were to shape
the Near East anew. The unfortunate Sultan was under rigorous supervision, a solitary and
helpless prisoner in Constantinople. Turkish, Arab and Greek deputations were hurrying back
and forth between the Mediterranean and London. Sometimes their arguments were listened
to; often they were not. The Treaty of Sevres was to be an imposed, not a negotiated, treaty.

Constantinople was at first promised to the Greeks; then this promise was taken back. It was
at last decided that Thrace and Adrianople in European Turkey should be Greek, and Smyrna
in Asia Minor. Turkey was reduced to a sort of "rump" state in the highlands of Asia Minor,
with a strip of coastline along the Black Sea. There was even talk of an independent,
sovereign State of Armenia in the far Northeast — if the Russians could be persuaded to
stomach it. Some sort of order was hacked out of all these conflicting claims. In August,

1920, the hapless Turkish representatives appended their signatures to the document which
embodied them all.

This concluded in a sense the first phase of my own campaign for a just treatment of defeated
Turkey. Before I record the events of the second phase which rapidly followed, it may be
proper to consider the effect of the decisions which the peacemaking politicians took in 1919-
1920, in stubborn and bland disregard of the advice which we proffered them.

Muslim opposition to the break-up of the Turkish Empire had a basis — however much
misunderstood it may have been — of true statesmanship and understanding of the absorbing
political realities of the Middle East. First we felt that the separation of the Arabs from the
Turks (hailed at the time as emancipation from a tyranny, but within a few years all Arab
nationalists were singing a very different tune) would not lead to the emergence of a single
strong Arab nation extending from Egypt to Persia and from Alexandretta to Aden and the
Indian Ocean. We foresaw in large measure what actually happened: the formation of a
number of small Arab nations, for many years of little more than colonial status, under
British and French overlordship. We predicted that the Arabs would in fact merely be
changing masters, and where these masters had been Muslim Turks, they would now be
Christians or (as ultimately happened in a large part of Palestine) Jews. Even now after the

lapse of thirty years or more, the Arab states that succeeded the Ottoman Empire — though
the ignominious protectorate and mandated status has been abolished — are nothing but an
aggregation of small kingdoms and republics, not one of them capable of standing up alone in
the face of any powerful opposition and, despite the Arab League, incapable of maintaining
either individually or collectively real resistance to the influence of Soviet Russia or the
Western democracies. Neutrality in any conflict between these two is a forlorn dream.

Consider for a moment how different matters might have been had these emerged after the
First World War a federal union of Turkey, the Arab states of the Middle East and Egypt,
with a single defense force and a united foreign policy. Our instinctive Muslim faith in the
idea of the continuance of Turkey as a great power had wisdom in it, for it would have
achieved practical results, in the security and the stability of the Middle East, far transcending
anything that the makeshift, haphazard policies of the years since the end of the Second
World War — piecemeal withdrawal of political suzerainty by Britain, piecemeal financial,
economic and military aid by the United States — have been able to effect. Consider the
disruption and the political malaise which have been the lot of the Middle East in recent
years; consider all the unavailing effort that has gone into the attempt to build up a Middle
East Defense Organization, in any degree paralleling NATO, and ponder how easily, how
honorably all this might have been avoided.

It is, however, no use crying over spilled milk. The victors of the First World War, unlike the
victors of the Second World War, were intoxicated with their triumph and the sense of their
own victory and believed that they could build a brave new world according to their heart'
desire. History was as tragically as categorically to give the lie to that belief.

The Treaty of Sevres, harsh though it was, was practically stillborn. Even by the following
spring of 1921 events had overtaken it, and it was obvious that it must be urgently
reconsidered. A new conference was called in London. At the Viceroy' request I put the
Muslim point of view to this gathering. Its sittings however proved abortive. For what
everyone in West and East alike had ignored was the emergence from the ruin of Turkey of a
soldier and statesman of genius, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, who in the time of their deepest
tribulation had rallied his sorely stricken but indomitable people. Denied access to
Constantinople, he had set up a provisional capital at Angora — now Ankara — high on the
Anatolian plateau; he had rebuilt, re-equipped and retrained the shattered Turkish Army.
Having obtained a secret understanding with Russia, he could arm his troops, and he was
assured of protection in his rear. He was thus prepared to defend his country' cause, not
around some distant conference table, but in his homeland and on the field of battle. Few
were at first aware of the magnitude of this new development.

The Greeks who, being nearest of all to the scene, should have known most, were blinded by
their own lust for military victory and territorial expansion. Taking exception to the
establishment of the Turkish provisional government in Angora, they began an ambitious,
grandiose, and as it proved, utterly disastrous series of military operations in Asia Minor.

To add to the complications, the British Government became restive over their demands for
the release of certain British prisoners held in Turkey. Over this, at least, I was able by direct
intervention and a direct appeal to the new Turkish authorities to secure a certain relief in an
increasingly critical situation. The Turks released the prisoners, and this crisis blew over.

By the late summer of 1922, however, the prospect looked blacker than ever. Mustafa Kemal'
tattered but valiant armies had stood at bay in their own hill country, had stemmed the tide of
Greek invasion, and now were in the full flush of victorious advance. They captured Smyrna,
the great Graeco-Levantine port on the coast of Asia Minor, put it to the sack, and before the
eyes of the crews of Allied warships lying in the harbor, set whole areas of it on fire. It was
the Greek army now which was a tattered, defeated remnant in flight. Mustafa Kemal' forces
stood at the gates of Constantinople and demanded the right of free, unimpeded passage to
reoccupy Thrace and Adrianople.

The whole situation was both ominous and confused. A mixed Allied military force, under
the command of a British General, Sir Charles Harington, held Chanak and the approaches to
Constantinople, which the Turks had already renamed Istanbul. A vigilant, cautious but
resolute man, Harington awaited orders from London. A single reckless or inconsidered
action on his part, even a stray shot developing into a fusillade, might precipitate a general
conflict a little less than four years after the cease fire at the end of the First World War. But
the character of the military commander on the spot was not the only factor in this grave and
delicate crisis. The British Government was in a curiously unrealistic and bellicose mood. A
long, trying period of industrial unrest, with a protracted coal strike and a huge roll of
unemployed, had been succeeded by the difficult and involved negotiations which ended the
worst of the "troubles" in Ireland and which were clinched by the signing of the Irish treaty.
But Lloyd George' second Coalition Government, returned to power with a huge majority in
the "coupon" election of 1918, had run its course. The Liberals had never really forgiven
Lloyd George for his brusque ousting of Asquith in December, 1916, in the central political
crisis of the war. The Conservatives supplied the bulk of his Parliamentary support, but they
were becoming increasingly restive and suspicious of the Prime Minister' incurable political
adventurism. Did he think that in the Chanak crisis, as it was called, he perceived an
opportunity to end the dissension and dissolution in the ranks of his supporters, to prevent his
own increasing isolation and to rally Parliament and people behind him in a great united
effort? Was it a gambler' throw or was it gross miscalculation?

I was in London when the crisis was at its worst, and I exerted every effort to prevent its
culminating in what I knew would be a disastrous as well as an unjust war. This time I was
not fighting a solitary battle against an overwhelming tide of contrary opinion. Now I had
powerful allies and supporters. The columns of The Times, as so often in my public career,
were open to me. The first Lord Rothermere, who had just assumed personal control of the
group of newspapers built up by his brother, Viscount Northcliffe, was my staunch supporter.
And Lord Beaverbrook, the man by whose influence and eager advocacy exercised at the
right moment Lloyd George had come to supreme power as Prime Minister in 1916, was now
as sincerely convinced that Lloyd George was set on a course that would bring nothing but
suffering and hardship. However, the first concern was not to encompass Lloyd George' fall

but to prevent — of all unnecessary wars — the most unnecessary that could ever have been
waged.

Early in September the British Government issued a statement on Chanak which was both
pugnacious and injudicious, and ended with an appeal to the Dominions for their help in the
event of another war with Turkey. The tone of this pronouncement thoroughly alarmed
British public opinion, which was in no mood to contemplate all the pain and sacrifice
involved in another war in support of what could only be described as Greek intransigence
and stubbornness. Protests were loud from all sides. The faction that was pro-Government
and philhellene had only one strong card to play: Turkish forces were then almost in contact
with the Allied -predominantly British — occupying forces in the Straits of Constantinople
area. General Harington on his side was quietly determined to avoid any action which might
involve his slender forces and commit them to any form of hostilities with the veteran, tough
and resolute forces which Mustafa Kemal had already deployed with skill. On the other hand,
at the earnest request of my friend, Lord Derby, * I was able to get in touch with the Turkish
leaders and point out the grave perils inherent in any attack on the Allied forces; and I
assured them that, pending a provisional settlement, their troops' strategic position would not
in any way be prejudiced if they abstained from any offensive action. I pressed these
considerations on my Turkish friends with all the urgency I could command. I am glad to say
that sanity prevailed. An important contributory factor was that France had come to a secret
understanding with Kemal and his Government; and French influence exerted by Monsieur
Raymond Poincare was all for a peaceful settlement. The decision for war could only have
been a rushed one; once British public opinion had time to ponder the issues, it could
crystallize and express itself, and it was firmly for peace. The very real menace of another
war in the Middle East was averted.

*We met, I remember, at Newmarket, and Lord Derby asked me to use all the influence
which I possessed.

A vivid account of the handling of this crisis has been given by Lord Beaverbrook. *
Throughout it Lord Beaverbrook was as active as he was staunch. Seriously worried by the
drift in affairs, he often discussed this matter with me. I was happy to see that we were in full
agreement and that in all my endeavors to assist the Turks I had his moral support. He too
had reached the eminently sound and practical conclusion that "for Britain to fight Turkey in
pursuance of the exploded policy of supporting Greek imperialism was a monstrous error
which must be avoided at all costs." Beaverbrook sought the support of his friend and fellow
Canadian, Bonar Law, then leader of the Conservative party, which supplied the bulk of the
Government' voting strength in the House of Commons.

* In Politicians and the Press.

Beaverbrook' words to Bonar Law were blunt. "These men mean war," he said.

Those four words spelled doom for Lloyd George' Coalition Government. A meeting of the
Conservative party was held at the Carlton Club, the party' great sociopolitical stronghold;
the speech that swayed the meeting and brought about its decision to withdraw support from

Lloyd George was made, not by Bonar Law, who was already an extremely sick man, but by
a comparatively unknown back bench M.P., Stanley Baldwin, who less than a year later was
to succeed Bonar Law as Prime Minister.

Lord Beaverbrook maintained his onslaught on the pro-Greek, anti-Turkish policy of the
Coalition Government. On December 16, 1922, the day after the House of Commons had
adjourned for the Christmas recess, The Daily Express gave a sensationally detailed account
of the happenings of the previous September. It said that within ten days of the fall of
Smyrna, when the Greek rout had already begun and it had been recognized by the Greek
Government in Athens that their military position in Asia Minor was hopeless, Lloyd George
encouraged them to continue fighting. Lloyd George (said The Daily Express) took this step
after having inquiries made by his principal private secretary, Sir Edward Grigg, * of
someone attached to the Greek Legation, who had said that the Greek army could not
possibly hold out longer without active British assistance in munitions and in credit. On
September second, The Daily Express went on, when the Athens Government appealed to
Lloyd George to arrange an armistice, another of his private secretaries telephoned the Greek
Legation advising them that "their government should be very careful to avoid the mistake
made by the Germans in 1918 and not conclude an abject armistice in a moment of panic."

*Now Lord Altrincham.

Lloyd George never returned to office. In spite of our difference over Turkey, I am glad to
think that he and I, even as late as 1940, when he came and lunched with me at Antibes,
remained on terms of firm and sincere friendship until the very end of his life. Lloyd George
was a man of infinitely compelling charm. His effective career as a politician was short, from
1905 to 1922. Its brevity may be explicable in terms of his personality, which was like a
diamond cut in many facets; every facet had a brilliant light to throw out, but their number
and their variety were so great that often contradictions occurred. There was only one phase
in his life in which these contradictions and conflicts were resolved, and he appeared — and
was — wholly consistent; this of course was during his first two years as Prime Minister, from
1916 to 1918 — a period of supreme effort and greatness. Then, in spite of all the efforts of
his critics to belittle him, he was as much "the man who won the war" as his great successor
Churchill was in the Second World War. With the exception of that one triumphant phase, the
brilliant and powerful manysidedness of Lloyd George' character prevented him from
influencing the history of his time to the extent which his talents — his imagination, his
practical capabilities and his intellectual superiority — gave his admirers (such as myself)
every hope to expect. As one of the Big Lour who formulated the Treaty of Versailles, he was
convinced — a conviction which I fully shared — that he would have used the power over
Germany, which under its terms were given to the victorious nations, in a very different
manner from that employed by his less imaginative and competent successors. Of all the
statesmen of that time whom I knew, Lloyd George alone, I feel sure, was capable of evoking
and sustaining in the Weimar Republic in Germany of the late 1920' and early 1930' that self-
respect and that genuine understanding and use of democratic institutions which could have
saved it and the world from Adolf Hitler and the Second World War. But, alas, by then the
volcano was exhausted not by its internal weakness but by its brilliance. The views which I

have expressed here about Lloyd George and Germany were shared, I know, by Lord
D'Abernon with all his profound knowledge and experience of Germany.

For myself an eventful period of close association with the politics and diplomacy of the
Middle East in general and Turkey in particular drew to a close. The first abortive Lausanne
Conference was followed by a second, more fruitful, during which I held what may be
described as a watching brief. Britain' new Conservative Government was represented by
Lord Curzon, the Foreign Secretary; the Turks sent a strong and capable delegation. Britain'
mood was realistic and sensible. It was decided to accept the facts, to give de jure as well as
de facto recognition to the new Turkey, and to let this revived and vigorous Uninational State
retain not merely its homeland in Anatolia, and the sea coast of Asia Minor, but also Thrace,
Adrianople and Istanbul. Along these lines agreement was reached and the Treaty of
Lausanne signed. Subsequently the Montreux Convention regularized arrangements for
dealing with the passage of international shipping through the Dardanelles.

It might be possible to construe all this as a diplomatic defeat for Britain, but what in fact
were its main results? A long period of growing harmony and understanding between Britain
and Turkey and a Brito-Turkish relationship in the Second World War which, despite severe
strain put upon it, was of great assistance to Britain and her allies. Think too what might have
happened had Turkey been rebuffed once more: Russia would long since have been installed
in Istanbul and, if not in Smyrna itself, along the coast to the north with her ships and aircraft
ranging far out into the Medi terranean. The statesmen of the West, heady with the sense of
their own political and military power, would have brought about endless complications and
misery in an important and sensitive region; destiny and history itself, tugging the other way,
gave Asia Minor years of tranquil development and reorganization, social, economic and
spiritual. A complement to and a striking contrast with the new Turkey' experience was that
of the Arab states in this same epoch -a story of division and weakness, of active nationalist
elements in the various countries in constant conflict with Britain and France, and of a
relatively submissive minority, installed in office, and therefore loyal to their British or
French masters. Such in brief was the history of the Near East from the rise of Ataturk to the
outbreak of the Second World War. Of all that happened in those sad and troublous years I
was a spectator — occasionally in the columns of The Times a critic — but thenceforward I
ceased to be, as I had so long been, an active participant.

One other political issue of some complexity and importance to which I devoted a good deal
of time and interest in those immediate postwar years was the question of Indians in East
Africa, especially in the rapidly developing colony of Kenya. As I have narrated in earlier
chapters there had long been Indian settlements along the coastline of East Africa; these
settlements contained a considerable and growing number of my own Ismaili followers, who
contributed an influential and stabilizing element to the community. In Kenya, where in the
1950' race relations became a political issue of the most crucial significance, there were
already clear signs, thirty years ago, of the dangers that were looming ahead. In the so-called
"White Highlands" of Kenya there was a rapidly developing area of European -
predominantly British — settlement, on the high rolling plateaus which lie between the coastal
belt and the Rift Valley and Africa' great lakes and which constitute a temperate region in

equatorial latitudes, fertile, climatically agreeable and eminently suitable to intensive
agricultural development. The whole of Kenya was administered by the British Colonial
Office as a Crown Colony. The British settlers, whose unofficial leader was Lord Delamere, a
tal ented and highly individualistic English peer, had of recent years been demanding an
increasing measure of self-government for themselves. They differed from the usual British
community in a tropical country in that they were settlers, and they intended to make — and
did make — Kenya their permanent home, bringing up their children there, and not merely
live there for short tours of duty as did (in general) British officials, traders and planters in
India, the Far East and West Africa. But the Indians, rapidly growing in numbers, saw in the
settlers' agitation for self-government the imposition of racial, "white" supremacy, and their
own permanent political and social exclusion and subjugation. They in their turn demanded
complete political and electoral equality. The Colonial Office officials wavered; and they
were not themselves competent to take the effective decisions which were made in Whitehall
and Downing Street. At no time has it been possible for Kenya to settle its own destiny for
itself; all of Kenya's problems have been subject to outside interference, influence and — in
the final analysis — external decision.

The end of the First World War had seen in Kenya, as elsewhere, a release of pent-up and
sharply conflicting political ambitions and emotions. The British electorate and its
representatives in the House of Commons were — although theirs was the final decision in
Kenya's affairs — in the great majority massively ignorant of Kenya's problems. From 1920 a
series of decisions was made within the Colonial Office in respect to Kenya; each new
decision appeared to cancel its predecessor. Matters were not helped by the fact that there
were several Governors of Kenya and several Secretaries of State for the Colonies within a
very few years. By the end of 1922 and the beginning of 1923 the situation in Kenya was
confused and inflammatory. So strong were the sentiments of the British settlers that they had
established a militant, secret organization of their own with which — in the event of the
British Government's deciding, as they thought, against them — they proposed to take over
the administration of the country. Indian opinion, both in Kenya and at home, was greatly
agitated. It is fair to say, however, that even in the period of greatest tension no single
incident of violence, involving a European and an Asiatic, was recorded in Kenya; in spite of
the deep political gulf between them, the communities remained on good personal terms.

To me the whole situation — had I not in my addendum to my friend Gokhale's political
statement suggested that East Africa be set aside for Indian colonization? — was deplorable. I
took my customary step of making my views known in a letter to The Times. The immediate
danger, as I saw it, was that a few hotheads might commit acts that would affect the mind and
imagination of Indians not only there and then but all over India and far into the future. In
particular I urged that if the settlers really accepted the view that the British Empire of the
future (we still had not evolved the concept of the Commonwealth, but we were moving
rapidly toward it) was to be a truly co-operative association between men of all races and
creeds and customs, then indeed in East Africa more than anywhere else in the Empire they
should use their full influence and power to bring about a better general feeling and
wholeheartedly accept the fact that, short-term feelings apart, in the long run their own

interests made it necessary that the Indian community in Kenya should be as prosperous and
as happy as it was large.

The Government of India was fully alive to the dangers of the whole situation. Lord Reading,
the Viceroy, Lord Peel, the Secretary of State, and Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru who was one of
India's representatives at the Imperial Conference of 1923, urged that there should be a
conference — or if necessary a number of conferences -between representatives of India and
all concerned with the administration of colonial territories, such as Kenya, Uganda and Figi,
where there was any sizable element of Indian settlement, to establish the political rights and
responsibilities of Indians in those regions.

Faced with this cogent and powerful request, faced too with the grim possibility of armed
rebellion by British settlers in a Crown Colony, the British Government was by now far from
unaware of the urgent need for action that would end the dispute. In this somewhat explosive
atmosphere I was asked by the Government of India if I would lead the Indian delegation to a
committee under the chairmanship of Lord Zetland, charged with the task of finding a
solution to the whole delicate and difficult problem.

By the time we were appointed, Lord Zetland had become a member of Mr. Baldwin's short-
lived first Government. I was asked to take the chair, but I felt that since I was a party to the
dispute and the chief spokesman of the Indian viewpoint, it would be unfortunate for me to be
chairman of the committee. We therefore had as our chairman Mr. J. Hope Simpson, M.P.;
the other members were Sir Benjamin Robertson, a member of the Viceroy's Executive
Council who had paid an official visit to Kenya in 1920, Diwan Bahadur T. Rangachariar and
Mr. K. C. Roy. We began our work in April and finished it in July; and by August of that
year, 1924, a Labor Government — Britain's first — was in office, and when our report was
presented to the House of Commons, the Minister who presented it was Mr. J. H. Thomas,
the new Secretary of State for the Colonies.

Jim Thomas and I became fast friends and remained so to the end of his life. I never believed
that in the unhappy affair which cut short his political career he acted otherwise than in good
faith. His open and genial nature may have landed him in a difficult and distressing situation,
from which the only way out — resignation — was the one which he took unhesitatingly. Jim
Thomas was a greathearted man, of fine and generous feelings, whom I always admired and
respected.

Though we had spent many weeks of that summer in committee rooms in the India Office
and in long discussions with the Colonial Office, our discussions did not receive the seal or
hall-mark of any Act of Parliament embodying our suggestions and recommendations. Yet
they had, I think, as a compromise, their own genuine value; true, they were only half
measures, but they were all that we had either the power or the authority to recommend.

Of one fact my years in public life have convinced me: the value of a compromise is that it
can supply a bridge across a difficult period, and later having employed that bridge, it is often
possible to bring into effect the full-scale measures of reform which originally would have
been rejected out of hand.

On the questions of electoral equality and of unrestricted settlement in the highlands there
was no change; Delamere and his friends held their position. But on immigration we secured
the abandonment of an offensive ordinance which the Kenya Government had already
adopted and which would virtually have put an end to Indian immigration into East Africa;
the Secretary of State, however, retained the right to enact any measure at any time should
African interests appear to be threatened by the influx of immigrants from abroad. Mr.
Thomas announced that certain districts in the coastal lowlands were to be reserved for
agricultural immigrants from India. These were to some extent gains. But it was obvious then
and it is obvious now that logicality and permanence are impossible of attainment in the
whole difficult and complex racial situation which, because of half measures and
compromises, has been allowed to develop in East Africa. In some measure, I think, we may
claim that we did create a better atmosphere and a wider understanding of the Indian
viewpoint, and the fairly practicable modus vivendi which subsisted in Kenya for many
years, and also in Uganda and Tanganyika, was the result of our committee work and the
detailed recommendations which we made.

One fact was apparent then and still deserves emphasis thirty years later: East Africa's
problems must not be allowed to become a matter of contention between opposing political
parties in Britain. I cannot be disinterested in this issue, for my own followers of purely
Indian origin number in East Africa nowadays some fifty thousand — seventeen thousand in
Kenya, twenty-seven thousand in Tanganyika and six thousand in Uganda. As recently as
July, 1953, 1 contributed a turnover article to The Times in which I set out my views, in
principle unchanged by all that had happened in the years between.

"For as long as we can foresee," I said, "the British people are the trustees of the population
of East Africa, irrespective of race and color. That trusteeship can never be adequately
exercised unless there is a firm bipartisan understanding and interpretation of that duty
between the two main political parties and informed public opinion among all classes in
Great Britain. There can be no real union in East Africa among the races if any portion of
them believes that the trustees are divided or that they have particular favorite wards. The
trusteeship of the African colonies is a great responsibility, a touchstone of success or failure
for the British race in one of the greatest challenges placed before it by destiny."

Time alone will show how that responsibility is discharged. As a tailpiece to my account of
these happenings in East Africa, however, it may be agreeable to mention that Sir Evelyn
Baring, the Governor of Kenya, issued a statement on the occasion of the sixtyeighth
anniversary of my inheriting the Imamate of the Ismailis, which was of the greatest warmth,
kindness and courtesy.

The year 1924 marked the conclusion of a phase of my public life, of five or six years of
strenuous and varied activity. Thereafter until 1929 or thereabouts I entered a period devoted
almost exclusively to my own personal and private life.

I think, however, that I should make it clear that in public affairs I have always been in a
sense an amateur. My public life, as I have shown, has moved in successive, fairly clearly

defined phases. But the duties and the responsibilities which are mine by inheritance have
never for an instant abated. My normal work as Imam of the Ismailis consists of a
constitutional leadership and supervision of the various councils and institutions of all the
numerous and farscattered Ismaili communities, self-administered as they are in each region.
In addition, I am in constant communication with thousands of individuals in the community,
on all sorts of diverse matters about which they seek guidance, and it is — as I have indicated
-a community spread across the globe from the Great Wall of China to South Africa. This is
my job, and it has been a regular part of my daily life for nearly seventy years, from
childhood into old age.

A Respite from Public Life

MY INTEREST in horses, their breeding, training and racing, has been with me all my life
and is of course also part of the tradition which I have inherited, the environment in which I
was bred. Persian art, in the various exhibitions which have been held in London and
elsewhere, has perhaps helped to make the Western public realize the large and important
part which sport played in the lives of that old Iranian ruling class whence I am descended.
The chase in its many forms was for them not just a distraction; it was a major occupation all
their lives; their hounds, their hawks, their horses were the most beautiful, the swiftest and
the finest that they could breed or procure. My grandfather in his young manhood, at the
court of Fateh Ali Shah, as the favored son-in-law of that powerful monarch, was as fully
absorbed in all the accustomed open-air and athletic sports and pursuits of a sophisticated yet
virile society as were any of his contemporaries. After his tribulations and his wanderings
ceased and he settled in Bombay, he naturally and happily resumed a way of life not very
dissimilar from that which he had known in his youth. And as I have tried to show earlier in
this book, such was the atmosphere in which, from the dawning of conscious experience, I
spent my childhood and boyhood.

When my father died he left a large and imposing sporting establishment in being — hawks,
hounds, and between eighty and ninety race horses. A good deal of this establishment my
mother naturally pared down, but she kept twenty or thirty of the horses; and throughout my
minority these were raced at meetings all over Western India in my name and under my
colors. I have earlier given a brief account of some of the successes which I — and with my
cousin and racing partner, Aga Shamsuddin — enjoyed during those years.

One effect of this early and sustained prominence on the Indian turf was that by the time I
was in my late teens I had a number of friends who were important and influential in racing
circles, two of whom were the brothers Lord William and Lord Marcus Beresford. They were
younger sons of the Marquis of Waterford; and Lord William in particular was a powerful
and original personality in his own right; he was military secretary to three Viceroys of India
in succession, Lord Ripon, Lord Dufferin and Lord Lansdowne. His long tenure of this key
post, in which he had won and maintained the confidence of each of his chiefs, gave him
unchallenged influence and authority over a diverse and far-ranging field of affairs, military,
social, political and diplomatic, in relations with foreign dignitaries and potentates who

visited India, and of course with the Ruling Princes. He was an utterly fearless horseman of
whom it was said that he had broken every bone in his body in falls sustained while hunting,
playing polo or steeplechasing. During his fourteen years as military secretary he became one
of India's leading race horse owners, on his own and in association with two princes, with the
Maharajah Darbhanga, an immensely wealthy landlord, and with the Maharajah of Patiala,
the leading Sikh prince. The bookmakers, it was always said, lived in fear and trembling of
Lord William, for he was a past master in the difficult art of bringing off big betting coups.

He was a friend of my family's and of mine from an early age; and whenever he came to
Bombay we saw a great deal of him.

When I first went to England in 1898 I discovered therefore -and I was young enough to be
agreeably surprised by my discovery -that a good deal was known about my hereditary and
personal interest in the breeding of horses and in the turf generally, not merely in exclusively
racing circles but in the India Office, at Court and in the personal entourage of the Prince of
Wales. Either Lord William Beresford or his brother Lord Marcus — and I have never been
able to find out which of them — had taken steps to have my colors as an owner registered in
England. They both knew that in India my family's racing colors had always been green and
red; they are also the colors of the Ismaili flag, and when my ancestors were temporal
sovereigns — both in Egypt and in Iran — green and red were the colors of their standards.
Some years later I discovered that my colors in England were registered as green and
chocolate; I made inquiries from Messrs. Wetherby, who told me that when the registration
occurred, green and red were not available; but they could never tell me whether it was Lord
William or Lord Marcus — or indeed someone else — who had chosen green and chocolate.
Many years later my elder son was able to get a combination of green and red; no doubt by
that time I too could have changed, but by then my green and chocolate had become so lucky
and so well known that it would have been neither politic nor practicable to change them. In
France, I may say, and in Europe generally, my racing colors are and have always been green
and red.

I was at once made an honorary member of the Grand Stand at Epsom. My first serious
racing, I well remember, was the Epsom Spring Meeting of 1898, when I saw the great Ray
Ronald win the City and Suburban. I am proud to think that I told my friends that this was a
fine horse who was sure to make his mark in the history of bloodstock breeding — especially
proud because this particular win, considering his age and weight, was nothing very
wonderful. A few weeks later I went to the Derby; I had a small bet of a sovereign at sixty-six
to one on a horse called Jeddah. Though my own bet was at sixty-six to one, the horse
actually started at one hundred to one, and then to everybody's astonishment won the Derby.
My friend the Prince of Wales happened to spot me in the enclosure and called across to me
with a laugh that a horse called Jeddah ought certainly to have belonged to me.

At Ascot I have had a Royal Household badge for well over fifty years; I was first given my
badge by Queen Victoria, and it has successively been re-bestowed on me by King Edward
VII, King George V, King George VI and Queen Elizabeth II.

From the beginning, however, my interest in racing has never been merely idle or transient.
From 1898 I went to race meetings in England or on the continent of Europe and I followed
the form of the horses very carefully. In India, at Bombay, Poona or Calcutta, I never, if I
could possibly avoid it, missed a meeting.

In France in 1905 I made the acquaintance of Mr. W. K. Vanderbilt, then the leading owner
in the country. Although he was a great deal older than I was, he took a special interest in
letting me into all the secrets of the administration of his great racing stables. He introduced
me to his trainer, William Duke, to whom he gave strict instructions that I was to be allowed
to visit his stables for the trials and training of his horses whenever I wished. Mr. Vanderbilt
said to me, "I think you'll get more pleasure out of a free run of my stables than out of a free
run of my house."

Whenever I was in Paris William Duke would send me word if he had any important trials on
hand, and often in the early morning I would go out to the stables and watch these trials.
During these sixteen years from 1898 to the outbreak of the First World War, while I watched
European racing, breeding and training but took no active part myself, my imagination was
stirred by, and I have retained vivid impressions of, a few great horses; there were, of course,
many others just as good, great and successful, but they and their performances have not
stayed in my memory in the same way. I say without hesitation that of all the horses which I
saw in England, Tetrarch and Spearmint were the two that impressed me most. I saw mares
like Sceptre and Pretty Polly and horses like Ardpatrick and Sunstar in England and
Sardanapale in France. Sceptre and Pretty Polly are the only two mares I have ever known
that, in quality and character, were comparable with the great horses I have named. They both
possessed speed, strength and soundness of wind and limb on a scale equal to any male horse;
so good were they that they were raced until they were five years old, and their descendants
have left their mark on bloodstock in England. In general, however, there can be no doubt
that the male thoroughbred is greatly superior to the mare. Not one of these mares left on me
the durable impression of power that I derived from Spearmint and Tetrarch in England, and
one outstanding French horse, Prestige. I am not at all sure that Prestige was not the most
impressive race horse that I ever saw. Mr. Vanderbilt owned another horse called Maintenon
at the same time as Prestige and they were often tried out in gallops together. Maintenon was
a good horse and he won the French Derby, but in a hard gallop he could never get within
twenty lengths of Prestige. William Duke, who trained both of them, told me again and again
that no weight, not even three stone, could have brought the two horses together.
Unfortunately Prestige was never entered in a single important race; if he had been he would
have won in a canter. He was never defeated and he was never out of a gentle gallop, because
nobody seemed to realize the reserve power which he had and could have shown if he had
ever been called on to do so. It was the same story with his morning gallops. The jockeys
who rode him told Duke that they were actually afraid of pushing him, even to a fraction of
his best, lest he run away with them. He was a beautiful-tempered horse; and to this day I
have never been able to understand why Mr. Vanderbilt sold him very cheaply and kept far
less impressive horses as stallions. True, Prestige never got good mares, but still he sired
Sardanapale. When Sardanapale was at the height of his power and his glory, having just won

the Grand Prix de Paris and the French Derby, the First World War came. I was then, as I
have recorded, in Africa. When I returned to Europe I found that racing for all practical
purposes was dead; I myself was busy and intensely preoccupied with the events and doings
which I have described. I did not go to a racecourse or follow racing form again until 1921,
when the first postwar Derby was run at Epsom. From then until 1921 I got back into the
habit of going to any important race meeting, wherever I happened to be, England, France,
Belgium, Italy, India or Egypt. I had long ago made up my mind, back in the nineties, to have
a few horses in Europe, but the death of my dearly beloved cousin, Aga Shamsuddin, with
whom I had intended to open a stable in Europe in 1910, had put an end to all my hopes and
ideas on this matter.

Then one day in the spring of 1921 at dinner at Mrs. Edwin Montagu's house, I found myself
sitting next to Mrs. Asquith, a daughter-in-law of the former Prime Minister and a sister of
Mrs. George Lambton. We talked horses and she urged me as vigorously as she could to take
up breeding bloodstock and racing in England.

"Why don't you," she said, "send for my brother-in-law, George, and ask him to buy a few
mares and yearlings for you?"

Back in my room at the Ritz I sat down and wrote a note to George Lambton asking him to
call on me. Our conversation bore fruit. He introduced me to Richard Dawson, a well-known
Irish sportsman, and recommended him to take up my training for me, while he himself
agreed to buy me a few yearlings. When I went back to Paris I sent for William Duke, whose
patron, Mr. Vanderbilt, was dead, and who therefore was free to work for someone else. He
began to train and buy yearlings for me in France; in England Mr. Lambton did the buying
and Mr. Dawson the training. Then I myself began to study the breeding of the yearlings that
came up for sale at Deauville and Doncaster. Among the Doncaster yearlings I chose one in
particular that became one of the mares on which I founded my stud, the filly to which I gave
the name Teresina. At the same time I picked out another yearling by the same sire Tracery; I
wired Lambton and I wrote posthaste to Dawson urging the purchase of this colt. The colt
was none other than Papyrus, the Derby winner of 1923 — my first. Mr. Lambton did not like
him, finding him too small and on the stocky side.

That shows how little we ought to go by the make and the shape of a yearling, so long as his
legs are sound and he is neither a giant nor a lilliputian. Apart from the all-important factor of
his breeding, I have one rule by which to judge a yearling: is he going to be very tall and
heavy or will he never be more than a pony? Do his legs look strong enough to stand the hard
leg exercises, gallops and so forth of training?

The general public take a great interest in racing; they have their favorites, their likes and
their dislikes, but very few people really understand the foundation of the art of training a
race horse. The object is precisely the same as that of training a boxer. Your boxer, your
wrestler, your weightlifter, by various muscular exercises and movements undertaken daily,
in a carefully thought-out and planned program, gets his whole body, his nerves, his muscles,

his capacity to give and take punishment all brought to their fullest, most perfect pitch of
development — for the day of his crucial contest.

With a horse, of course, there is no question of putting him down on his back to do all the
scientifically planned and disciplined exercises that a human athlete can be put through.

There is only one way of building up a horse's muscles — and the nervous energy that must
take charge of those muscles — and that is by walking, running and, if necessary, a certain
amount of jumping. The great trainer is the one who knows how to adjust the pattern of these
exercises so that his horses will attain the height of their physical power, fresh and vigorous
and with their nervous energy at its peak, on the most important day of their racing careers,
just as the prize fighter who wins is the one who is at the top of his form when he steps into
the ring in Madison Square Garden.

My recollections of thirty years of European racing, from 1922, when my colors were first
seen on English and French racecourses, to 1952, are countless in their variation, both in
respect of men and of horses.

Across memory's screen so many great sportsmen come and go — English, American, French,
with all their individual characteristics, their quirks of outlook and temperament. I recall
immediately, for example, Mr. Joseph Widener, of Philadelphia, one of my closest and
kindest friends, among American owners. He had strong opinions about breeding, particularly
on the subject of the importance of the dam, as against the sire, in bloodstock. I once said to
him that since he was convinced that the maternal was much more important than the
paternal, if he applied his theories to human beings, a family would rapidly degenerate unless
its young men married Widener girls. Was my joke in good taste? At any rate he was good
enough to laugh at it.

My friend the late Lord Wavertree was another who attached little importance to the sire and
great importance to the dam. Lord Wavertree indeed went further than anyone else I have
known, holding that if your mares are good, it really does not matter what sort of sire you
mate them with. My own view is that you must try to secure the best and most suitable
breeding through both sire and dam, bring it by both inbreeding and outcrossing as nearly
perfect in the abstract as you can. Success will depend on whether any particular foal takes
after his dam and the majority of her maternal ascendants or after his sire and the majority of
his paternal ascendants. Thus with two horses which are full brothers, unless they are
identical twins, it is not possible to say with certainty whether they will possess similar or
dissimilar characteristics. One may display the paternal ascendant qualities of the sire and be
a very great horse; the other may have the maternal ascendants of the dam and be a poor
horse. On the other hand, both or either may possess the maternal ascendants of sire or dam
and be a failure. Thus after a great deal of study and careful thought and weighing-up of
much experience, I have come to the conclusion that I still must leave it to chance, for it is
quite impossible to say in advance that a horse, possessing the best blood in the world, will
turn out any good, and this despite anything his own brother or sister may have done.

I advised Mr. Lambton to buy some excellent mares, and he himself picked out some fine
ones, like Mumtaz Mahal and Cos; and he picked up a couple of very good colts, Diophon
and Salmon Trout. My immediate success, I am convinced, was owing to the fact that I began
my European racing career with two of the greatest trainers of all time to look after my
horses, William Duke and Richard Dawson.

Trainers as capable as Richard Dawson no doubt exist today, but I do not think there is
anyone who has his supreme courage — unless it be Madame Tesio of Italy. Dawson's great
quality was that he would risk everything in order that his horse should be at his very best,
muscled up to perfection, for the most important event of his life. From all I hear today, the
methods that are fashionable both in England and with the majority of French trainers are far
more tender. In general, trainers now spare their horses a great deal more than did men like
Dawson and Duke, or, for that matter, the man whom I consider the greatest trainer of all,
Frank Butters. There is far too much coddling at present, far too much cotton wool. Since
nearly all trainers subscribe to the current fashionable views, it does not matter greatly, but I
think if any of them came up against one of the hard men of the past or Madame Tesio, they
would show up badly. The reason given is doubtless that in the old days many horses were
broken down in the process of training. I have been told that Gilpin, one of the greatest of
old-time trainers, only a few days before the Derby broke down the filly with which he had
expected to win it. Gilpin was not in the slightest bit ruffled; he did not even apologize to the
owner. He said, quite rightly, that if he had spared her the gallop in which she broke down,
she would never have won the Derby, and that it was his job to take every chance for a win
rather than by insufficient preparation ensure defeat.

From 1931 I had the great good fortune of having my very dear friend, Mr. Frank Butters, for
whom my family have the greatest affection, train for me. Mr. Buttersx, one of the most
delightful human beings one could ever hope to meet, with a nature as clean and clear as a
diamond but without its harshness, was one of the greatest and most successful trainers in the
world. He began his career in Austria and Hungary and rose immediately to the top of his
profession. He moved on to Italy and there too in no time he was at the top again. Eater he
took Ford Derby's stable in hand, and with horses like Fairway and others he was the leading
trainer in Britain for several years and made his patron the leading owner. When he left Ford
Derby and came to me, the tables were quickly turned and I took the front again as leading
owner and breeder. For me he trained a succession of magnificent horses like Bahram,
Mahmoud, Tehran and Firdaussi, and a great many splendid twoyear-olds. Even more
wonderful than his success with great horses was his way with quite moderate ones. He had a
wonderful knack of getting out of any horse the very best that horse could do.

In some ways Butters and Duke were alike, particularly in that neither of them attached the
importance that most other trainers attach to the detailed appearance of the yearlings which
came to them. Mr. Duke used to go out of his way to pooh-pooh people who chose yearlings
on appearance and make and shape; he held that one yearling was as good as another if it
were properly trained and had in it the natural qualities of health and nervous energy and —
most important of all — the capacity to rest and to sleep. When he bought yearlings for me he
never bothered to make any elaborate inspection of them; in fact I doubt if he ever gave them

a second thought. If while an auction was in progress he failed to buy one yearling for which
he had been bidding, he was never disappointed but would laugh it off and say that the next
would probably be better still. To him it was almost like putting numbers in a hat and pulling
them out — plus, of course, absolute confidence in his own methods of training. He believed
in himself, not in his yearlings. Long before they were in general use he employed vitamins
and other natural methods of sustaining a horse's health and nervous energies. Duke was a
man who had a number of enemies, the source of whose hostility was jealousy. Those whose
expensive yearlings had been beaten by the ones that Duke had picked up cheaply were apt to
hint that he doped his horses. Nothing could be further from the truth. He would laugh and
tell me that his dope was first-class food, a great deal of fresh lucerne grass, fresh vitamins,
lots of fresh air in the loose-boxes and hard work for every horse.

French training grounds were very bad in those days, though I am told that they have much
improved of late. Duke therefore had more or less to train his horses on the racecourse. He
had one very honorable rule: that in countries in which the training grounds were impossible,
the public had no business judging a horse until he had shown his true form at least once;
thereafter any marked inequalities of form were against the public interest, and a good trainer
ought not to keep a horse that ran thus but should turn him out of the stable. A horse should
be consistent in his form once he had shown it, but the public had no right to expect a trainer
or an owner to break his horse on impossible training grounds.

Frank Butters, on the other hand, never needed races as preparation for his horses. If his two-
year-olds were ever capable of winning, they won the first time they were out. The great
Bahram, for example, before his Derby had one race — the Two Thousand Guineas — and he
cantered away with that as he did with the Derby. No nonsense about his needing two or three
eye-openers.

I have often been asked which I considered to be the greatest horse I ever bred. Until Tulyar
came on the scene I would unhesitatingly have said Bahram. But Tulyar has shown a certain
capacity for always doing just enough, which makes it difficult to assess his limits as
compared with Bahram's. Bahram was probably the most dominating horse I ever saw. From
the first, he looked and acted the champion. Tulyar running is a greyhound. In my youth I
saw the great Flying Fox as a two- and three-year-old -curiously like Tulyar, he ran with his
head in line with his body or perhaps even lower; practically every horse runs with his neck
carried higher than his body, and some with their heads up. Tulyar and Flying Fox have been
the only two exceptions to this rule that I have ever seen. But the present Lord Rosebery, that
great figure in English racing — and how widespread is the regret that he does not take a more
leading and active part in its administration -has told me that the famous Eclipse, the ancestor
of almost all the good horses in the world, used to gallop with his head down, almost as if he
were smelling the ground. When Tulyar gallops, he is straight as an arrow. We must however
face the fact that Tulyar -unlike Bahram — is on the small side for a great race horse. Bahram
was the tallest Derby winner of modern times, and Tulyar is probably one of the shortest.

And there is no getting away from the old, old saying: "A big good 'un is better than a little
good 'un."

I am not sure, however, that there is not another side to this question. Many sound judges —
like Mr. Frank Butters and the late Captain Greer — have told me that English breeders have
gone too much for size and bone and that we need a smaller run of stallions to achieve that
concentration of vitality which is so often found in small men and animals. I think that there
is a great deal in this, and I am therefore glad to think that Tulyar will remain in Ireland to
influence new generations and to check this overemphasis on size and bone. Many of us had
hoped that the Derby winner. Manna -also a small horse — would help to bring down size, but
Manna un fortunately was a comparative failure. The great Hyperion of course was a small
horse, and one of the greatest stallions of all time. But we need more than one Hyperion if we
are to prevail against the present tendency to sacrifice vitality and nervous energy to muscle
and bone.

Looking back in this fashion over my memories of owning, breeding and racing horses, I do
not propose to give a detailed account of my wins, my prizes, my bloodstock sales and so
forth. For those who want that sort of record it is admirably supplied by Ruffs Guide to the
Turf. My own recollections stretch back well over fifty years, to the late nineties, to a
generation of jockeys, owners and trainers long since departed, and to methods of riding
entirely forgotten except in old prints and pictures. There was the first Duke of Westminster,
for example, gentle and kind in appearance, yet with a strain of irascibility in him. When Mr.
Gladstone, who had many years before given him his dukedom, announced his support of
Irish Home Rule, the Duke unceremoniously bundled Mr. Gladstone's portrait out of his
house and into a public auction. He was small and lightly built and — so I was told — actually
rode some of his own best horses at trials. He had one odd sartorial whim: always, whatever
the occasion, he wore, either with a morning coat or a frock coat, a blue shirt, a blue collar
and a blue necktie.

One day the Duke of Westminster went into his stables, and a mare, Vampire, attacked him.
He at once ordered Vampire to be destroyed. He was begged to reprieve her and finally
agreed. Two or three years later she got him The Bat and later Flying Fox.

There was the Duke of Portland, whom in later years I came to know very well; after the
Derby of 1935 he listed for me the points of resemblance between his great St. Simon and my
great Bahram. There was Sir J. B. — "Blundell" — Maple, the father-in-law of my friend
Baron von Eckardstein, big of build, loud of voice, self-confident, even perhaps self-satisfied,
certainly self-made, but withal a truly kindhearted and generous person. However, as founder
and owner of his furniture store in Tottenham Court Road, he was not popular with the
supremely aristocratic little clique which in those days ruled the Jockey Club; time and again
they blackballed him. One day it became known that he was dying; there was remorse all
round, and he was elected to the Jockey Club posthaste. There were the brothers Reuben and
Arthur Sassoon, two of the kindliest old men I ever met, generous and gentle. They had no
hint of snobbishness in them, but they were extremely well liked in society at its highest
levels, and were both close personal friends of King Edward. I have always understood that
they did his modest betting for him at race meetings; his stakes ranged from twenty-five to
fifty pounds, but the Sassoons placed them with as much care and trouble and anxious inquiry
as if they had been for thousands of pounds.

The great event in racing in the late nineties, of course, was the revolution in riding that came
from America. Lord William Beresford brought over Tod Sloan with his American mount.

All the leading owners, like the Dukes of Westminster and Portland, pooh-poohed it at first.
But it upset every applecart. Race after race was won by Sloan and his American imitators,
who invaded both England and France. The old-fashioned champions, if they were too old or
too stubborn to move with the times and change, had to give up and retire altogether. Not
long after this, doping was introduced — also from across the Atlantic. This also upset
everybody, and it took several years to get it finally barred in England and in France and its
perpetrators sternly punished. The American mount, however, was a quite different matter. It
had come to stay, and nobody thereafter thought of returning to the old cavalry seat in racing,
with its erect posture. In its own way this was as big a revolution in racing as the discovery of
gunpowder in warfare. It is undoubtedly true that the results are an immense improvement on
those of the past, but aesthetically the disappearance of the old seat, with its dignity and grace
in the rider as much as in the horse, is a great loss.

I have often been asked how the best horses of today compare with the best horses of the late
nineties and the early years of this century. Are today's best really much superior to their
predecessors? I personally have not the least hesitation in saying that great progress has been
made in the past fifty years. And why not? If it had not been, racing, with its countless and
elaborate methods of breeding and selection, would be senseless and time-wasting. The
whole object of picking and choosing in mating horses is constantly to improve the breed by
letting artificial selection assist natural selection. We who breed race horses firmly believe
that the combination of these two, if it is carried out conscientiously and scientifically, can
and does produce steady and marked improvement in racial characteristics and qualities.
There is a time test not only of record performances but of average races over long but
comparable periods of weeks in, let us say, 1914 and the present day. Statistically tested thus,
there is no doubt that today's horses do run faster. The exceptional horse apart, the average
speed has increased out of all recognition.

We are told that the horses of the past could sustain a gallop twice or three times as long as
the ordinary course of today. The veterinary services in India too produced a crank of their
own who maintained that the ordinary Indian horse — the Katty — is superior to the
thoroughbred because he can jog along at a regular pace for miles and miles and miles
without stopping. Well, what of it? We have bred for speed, and surely the answer to these
croakers and cranks is that the English thoroughbred is not called on to sustain a six- or nine-
mile gallop, or to keep going all day; he can sprint a few furlongs and then lie down and sleep
— let the Katty horse amble away — and in that brief sprint he has done all the work that the
other horse could have done, without the same long draw on his constitution and vitality.
Whatever the distance, long or short, the thoroughbred will defeat the jogger because he has
that extra vitality which will produce the effort needed. The race horse is bred for a highly
specialized purpose, and he fulfills that purpose very well. The sheer facts sustain all the
theories about breeding and selection and prove — it seems to me beyond the possibility of
contradiction — that there is a steady and continuing improvement in the quality of the
English thoroughbred race horse. Even if you compare the pictures of the horses of today and

those of fifty years ago, you will see that the horse of today obviously looks faster, if there is
anything in looks.

Foreshadowings of Self-Government in India

FOR SEVERAL YEARS, from the end of 1924 on, I took little part in public life. In India
the strength of nationalist sentiment grew steadily throughout these years. The personal
leadership and authority of Mahatma Gandhi in the Congress party intensified; the Nehrus,
father and son, and Vallabhai Patel were the only leaders approaching him in stature. There
were periods of fierce conflict and sullen repression; there were periods of comparative
quiescence. The consciousness among Muslims that they must work out their own destiny
strengthened steadily. To Lord Chelmsford succeeded Lord Reading; to Lord Reading, Lord
Irwin, * who, as Edward Wood, had been a Minister in Mr. Baldwin's first Government, a
profoundly sincere and serious-minded man of deep religious convictions. Britain's promise
of self-government by stages still stood out as the crucial decision in Indo-British relations.
Agitation increased, as successive Governments seemed equally reluctant to take the first
steps toward implementing this promise.

Of these events and trends I was an interested observer but little more. A full, active and
eventful private and personal life engrossed me. I went to India every year; my wife was
settled in the south of Lrance; my son, Aly, his childish delicacy overcome, lived in England
with his tutor, Mr. C. W. Waddington. | In the winter of 1923-1924 my wife and son came
with me to India. My own interest in racing during this period was extremely active; my wife
followed my racing in Lrance but not in England.

*Now Lord Halifax.

t Lormerly Principal of the Mayo College at Ajmer.

In 1926 she fell ill, and was an invalid throughout that year. The doctors offered all sorts of
diagnoses, ranging from indigestion to "nerves." Later in the year she was in a great deal of
pain; and now at last the doctors paid some attention to her condition, and an operation for
appendicitis was suggested. The operation was performed in December. It was discovered
that she was not suffering from appendicitis. She seemed to make a steady recovery. But one
afternoon I was out driving in the Bois, and when I went back to the hospital I was told that
she had died during my absence. A small blood clot had escaped, traveled to her heart, and
ki lled her. She was thirty-seven years old.

More than a year passed. Early in 1928 I proposed marriage to Mile. Andree Carron of
Chambery, Aix-les-Bains. I had known Mile. Carron and her family for twelve or fourteen
years, indeed since she was quite a young girl. She was thirty when I proposed to her. She
hesitated for a long time before accepting me; and it was not until nearly two years later —
December, 1929 — that we were married at Aix-les-Bains. There arose a ridiculous legend —
created and fostered by the newspapers — that I met her serving behind the counter in a

chocolate shop whither I had gone to buy sweets. There was never a word of truth in it. What
happened was this: when the news of our intended marriage reached the papers, all they knew
was that I was going to marry someone called Carron from Chambery. The reporters
descended on Chambery, looking for a Mile. Carron. At last they found one — selling candy
in a sweet shop.

"There she is," they said and scurried off to telephone their newspapers that they had
discovered the Mile. Carron whom the Aga Khan was going to marry.

The girl in the candy shop had never met me; she did not know me; my Mile. Carron was
someone quite different, who for several years had had a dressmaking shop in Paris with her
sister, and she had never in her life had anything to do with chocolates. But the legend got
away to a flying start, and the truth never seemed to catch up with it.

Ours was for many years a happy and well-knit marriage. We had one child, my second son
Sadruddin, who was born on January 17, 1933. My wife went everywhere with me. In
England in 1930 she was received by Their Majesties and was invited to luncheon at Ascot.
She shared my social life actively and fully for many years.

Meanwhile I was being drawn back into political and public life. Lord Irwin, the Viceroy, in
a momentous pronouncement, had shown Indians what — in the British view — was to be
their ultimate goal in their constitutional evolution, but he had omitted to indicate with any
precision the steps or the road to that goal.

"In view of the doubts which have been expressed," said Lord Irwin, "both in Great Britain
and India regarding the interpretation to be placed on the intentions of the British
Government in enacting the statute of 1919, 1 am authorized to state clearly that in their
judgment, it is implicit in the Declaration of 1917 that the natural issue of India's
constitutional progress as there contemplated is the attainment of Dominion status."

The two words "Dominion status" were to focus and bind Indian ambitions and aspirations
for a decade and more, in an ever more forceful and dynamic drive toward independence; and
in the end there emerged not one but two independent and sovereign states -Muslim and
Hindu — the latter of which was, almost immediately, to throw away even the vestigial and
nominal link of being called a Dominion and proclaim itself (as it had the constitutional right
and ability to do) a republic within the Commonwealth.

In 1928-1929, however, all this was to be striven for. Congress met in Calcutta and prepared
its own scheme for self-government and Dominion status; but it was marred by the fatal,
obsessive flaw of all such Congress schemes to the end, that of underrating — indeed ignoring
— Muslim claims to be considered as a nation within a nation. Muslim opinion was therefore
alert. A Royal Commission — that classic British instrument for tackling a grave political or
constitutional problem at home or overseas — was by now touring India, taking evidence in
impressive quantities and with vast thoroughness; its chairman was Sir John Simon, * the
great lawyer-poli tician, then almost at the zenith of his dazzling career; among its members
was the pertinacious but personally self-effacing Mr. Clement Attlee, on whose knowledge of

India this experience was to have a profound and lasting effect. The Viceroy had announced
that after the Simon Commission issued its report it was intended that a conference should be
held between the Government, the representatives of British India, and the representatives of
the Indian states, in order to try to reach agreement on the way in which constitutional
progress should be ensured.

* Now Viscount Simon.

It was decided therefore to hold an All- India Muslim Conference in Delhi at the end of 1928,
to formulate Muslim views on the way in which Indian independence should evolve. I was
asked to preside over this conference. It proved to be, I am convinced, one of the most
important in the long series of such assemblies which marked the road toward total and final
independence for the whole subcontinent. It was a vast gathering representative of all shades
of Muslim opinion. I can claim to be the parent of its important and lasting political
decisions. After long, full and frank discussions we were able to adopt unanimously a series
of principles which we set out in a manifesto. They were as follows:

In view of India's vast extent and its ethnological divisions, the only form of government
suitable to Indian conditions is a federal system with complete autonomy and residuary
powers vested in the constituent states.

The right of Muslims to elect their representatives in the various Indian legislatures is now
the law of the land, and Muslims cannot be deprived of that right without their consent.

In the Provinces in which Muslims constitute a minority they shall have a representation in
no case less than that enjoyed by them under the existing law (a principle known as
weightage).

It is essential that Muslims shall have their due share in the Central and Provincial Cabinets.

We agreed to concede a similar kind of "weightage" to the Hindu minorities in Sind and other
predominantly Muslim provinces, but we insisted that a fair proportion of Muslims should be
admitted into the Civil Service and into all statutory self-governing bodies. I myself
demanded appropriate safeguards for "the promotion and protection of Muslim education,
languages, religion, personal law and charitable institutions" — all causes for which, over
years, I had fought as strenuously as I could. I also thought it right to warn my co-religionists
and compatriots of the perils of being too easily taken in by Congress' protestations of
undefined good will.

The principles which we had enunciated were henceforward to be our guiding lights in all our
encounters with British or Hindu representatives and negotiators, with the Government of
India or with the Congress party, in every discussion of schemes of reform and new projects
for the administration of the country. We now had our code book, and we did not intend to
deviate from it.

The unanimity of this conference was especially significant, for it marked the return — long
delayed and for the moment private and with no public avowal of his change of mind — of

Mr. M. A. Jinnah to agreement with his fellow Muslims. Mr. Jinnah had attended the
Congress party's meeting in Calcutta shortly before, and had come to the conclusion that for
him there was no future in Congress or in any camp — allegedly on an All-India basis —
which was in fact Hindu-dominated. We had at last won him over to our view.

If India's political and constitutional evolution could be likened to a protracted and hard-
fought chess contest (the analogy is imperfect, I know, for there were always at least three
players in this game), then it may be said that the board had now been set for an especially
crucial game, the pieces were in place, and there was a considerable lull while everyone
thought out his next move. The Simon Commission set about the task of preparing its report.
A General Election in Britain resulted in the resignation of Mr. Baldwin, and the formation
by Mr. Ramsay MacDonald of his second Labor Administration; but although the Labor party
were numerically the strongest, they did not command an absolute majority in the House of
Commons and were dependent, as five years before, on Liberal support. The world scene
changed rapidly and startlingly during 1929. The Wall Street crash ushered in the years of
economic depression, the slump which was to send unemployment figures steadily mounting
in practically every Western coun try and which was to lead desperate men — in Germany and
elsewhere — to seek desperate remedies. The brief and deceptively sunlit epoch of the 1920's
was over; we were on the threshold of what Sir Winston Churchill has described as "the
terrible thirties."

I spent the first three months of 1929 in Egypt making a close study of Egyptology, having as
my guide and instructor Professor Newbury, a distinguished Egyptologist, who accompanied
me on a tour of all the monuments of the Nile Valley right up to Abu Simbal and back.

The British High Commissioner in Egypt was Lord Lloyd, whom I had known well in India
during his highly successful time as Governor of Bombay. A strong-minded imperialist of the
school of Cromer and Curzon, George Lloyd was very shortly to come into conflict with his
Government at home and resign the post in which he felt that he had lost their confidence. He
was a man of remarkable intellectual gifts and great tenacity of purpose. Since he believed so
fervently and with so deep and unswerving a passion in the greatness of Britain's imperial
destiny, it was perhaps a blessing in disguise that he died early in the Second World War
while still -as statesmen are reckoned — a comparatively young man, for bitter indeed would
have been his feelings had he lived to see the final hauling down of the British flag in India
and the partition of the subcontinent into the republic of Bharat and the eventual republic of
Pakistan.

To me personally he was the kindest and most generous of hosts, but I could not help being
uncomfortably aware of his unpopularity with all sections of the Egyptian governing class.
King Luad, whom I had known for more than thirty years and with whom I had been in
particularly close contact when the British Government sent me on my mission to Egypt early
in the First World War, made a special point of asking me to call and see him. He received
me in private at the Abdin Palace. We were alone together for a long time and we had a
revealing, if saddening, conversation. The King was already a sick man, though nobody
realized the seriousness of his malady. He wept openly at the way in which he himself was

rebuffed and neglected, and at the British High Commissioner's relentless refusal to permit
him to have any effective voice in the governing of his own country.

“Lloyd," he said, "pulls the strings while the marionettes dance. Cromer turned Abbas Hilmi
into a puppet. Lloyd is turning me into a corpse!"

At the Mohammed Ali Club, which was the great meeting place of Egypt's leaders, where
they could talk, play their beloved cards, and canvass all their countless political and business
schemes and plans, I heard — from one friend and acquaintance after another -the same story:
Field Marshal Lord Allenby, for whose inflexible sense of justice they had a profound
admiration, had made promises which had led them to expect increasing independence; but
now they found that the "strings" which Allenby had reserved for the High Commissioner
had been converted by Lloyd into iron chains — not, I may say, my own words but the precise
phrase used to me by more than one Egyptian Minister.

Why had Lord Lloyd, who in India had been quite liberal and had always acted in the spirit as
well as the letter of the constitution under which he governed, shown so different a face in
Egypt? Why had he indeed acted not as a High Commissioner but as a Viceroy with plenary
powers? May the answer not be that when he was in India as Governor of Bombay, the
Montagu-Chelmsford constitution, whose principles he applied liberally and generously,
limited home rule to certain clearly specified spheres of activity and administration, and
within those well-defined limits there was neither need nor excuse for Lloyd to interfere? But
in Egypt the glove came off his iron hand; for there the whole relationship was fluid and
indeterminate, and there were no clear-cut lines of demarcation to divide and define the
respective spheres of authority of the King and his Ministers and of the British High
Commissioner. The Egyptians considered that their country was an independent sovereign
state and that the King and his advisors were absolutely their own masters, not only in all
matters of internal, executive, day-to-day control and administration of their country's affairs,
but indeed in external relations, whereas the High Commis sioner's function was merely to
watch Great Britain's interests and see that Egypt took no action and joined no diplomatic
combination hostile or injurious to Britain. George Lloyd, on the other hand, saw no clear
definition of his powers or of those of the King and his Ministers, and he realized that if he
did not keep a close watch and a firmly guiding hand, the whole team might get out of
control.

In the summer of 1930 the Simon Commission issued its report. Its analysis of India's
political history under British rule and of her contemporary situation was as masterly as it
was lucid; it was however on the constructive side of its task that the Commission's report fell
sharply short of the high expectations and hopes which its appointment had aroused. It
particularly disappointed the Congress leaders, and their resentment of it was loudly and
unequivocally expressed. Lord Irwin, the Viceroy, was on leave in England in the earlier part
of 1930, and when he returned to India he announced that His Majesty's Government
proposed to convene a Round Table Conference in London to consider the future of the
country and to reform its constitution. The announcement came at a time of considerable
tension, when a civil disobedience campaign, launched by Mahatma Gandhi, was at its

height. It eased the tension for the time being; and the Viceroy was able to receive, in a
calmer political atmosphere than had seemed possible a few weeks before, a representative
delegation * to discuss the date and the personnel of the Round Table Conference and the
question of an amnesty for political offenders jailed in connection with the civil disobedience
campaign. Agreement, however, was not reached at this preliminary meeting; Mahatma
Gandhi withdrew and refused to give any undertaking that Congress would attend the Round
Table Conference. The Indian National Congress, in session at Lahore, passed a resolution in
favor of a renewed resort to civil disobedience.

*The members of the delegation were Mahatma Gandhi, Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru, Pandit
Motilal Nehru, Mr. M. A. Jinnah and Mr. V. J. Patel, then President of the Indian National
Assembly.

The Viceroy pertinaciously maintained his hopeful, sympathetic and wise attitude. If
Congress would not, at the outset at any rate, co-operate in the attempt to find a way out of
India's political perplexities, the attempt would still be made. As many eminent and
representative leaders of Indian political thought and feeling as possible — outside the ranks
of Congress — would be invited. Mr. Nehru, in his Autobiography which was published in
1936 (when the whole issue of Indian independence was still unsettled), made some caustic
observations about the personal qualifications of the delegates to the conference; in the longer
perspective of history, however, it can be seen as a remarkable assemblage of men and
women of widely differing background and outlook, all genuinely anxious to discover a
peaceful and honorable path to the independence and self-government which had explicitly
been proclaimed to be the objectives of Britain's rule in India.

The British representatives included the Prime Minister, Mr. Ramsay MacDonald; the Lord
Chancellor, Lord Sankey; the Secretary of State for India, Mr. Wedgwood Benn * ; and —
representing the Conservative Opposition — Sir Samuel Hoare, t who was later, in some
years that were crucial to India's destiny, to be Secretary of State for India; and Lord
Reading, a Liberal leader and former Viceroy. The British-Indian delegation, of which I had
been appointed a member, included Muslim, Hindu and Parsee representatives drawn from
many shades of political opinion and other delegates representing numerous smaller
communities; among the Muslims, Mr. M. A. Jinnah, Sir Mohammed Shaffi, Sir Zafrullah
Khan and Maulana Mohammed Ali; and two women delegates, the Begum Shah Nawaz and
Mrs. Subbaroyan; among the Hindus, Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru, the Rt. Hon. V. S. Srinivasa
Sastri; Sir C. P. Ramaswami Alyar, Sir Chimanlal Setalvad, Mr. M. R. Jayakar and Diwan
Bahadur Rama Mudaliyar; among the Parsees, Sir Phiroze Sethna, Sir Cowasji Jehangir and
Sir H. P. Mody. Mr. Ambedkar, himself bom an "untouchable," represented the Depressed
Classes; Sir Henry Gidney, the Anglo-Indian community.

*Now Lord Stansgate.

t Now Lord Templewood.

The rep resentation of Ruling Princes was as impressive as it was stately, including as it did
many of the bearers of the greatest and most famous names in Indian chivalry. The

Maharajah Gaekwar of Baroda was their leader, and others with him were the Maharajahs of
Bikaner, Patiala, Bhopal, Kashmir, Rewa and Jamnagar — better known perhaps to millions
of British citizens as the unforgettable "Ranji" of cricket fame. The Princes were
accompanied, many of them, by their Diwans — their Prime Ministers — who included
statesmen of the quality and distinction of Sir Akbar Hydari and Sir Mirza Ismail, and other
eminent men.

We assembled in London in the autumn of 1930 I had the honor of being elected leader of the
Muslim delegation. We established our headquarters in the Ritz Hotel, where it has long been
my custom to stay whenever I am in London. It is no formality to say that it was an honor to
be chosen to lead so notable a body of men — including personalities of the caliber of Mr. M.
A. Jinnah, later to be the creator of Pakistan and the Quaid-i-Azam, or Sir Mohammed
Zafrullah Khan, for many years India's representative at numerous international conferences
and first Foreign Minister of Pakistan, or my old and tried friend, Sir Mohammed Shaffi, one
of the founders of the Muslim League.

The happiness of being thus chosen was for me one of the many joys of an exceptionally
happy, as well as eventful, period of my life. It was the first twelvemonth of my marriage to
Mile. Andree Carron, and I had also had the by no means negligible experience of winning
the Derby with Blenheim.

Later, then, in this memorable year the full first Round Table Conference began with a formal
inaugural session in the House of Lords, presided over by His Majesty, King George V. My
colleagues then accorded me the further honor of electing me to be chairman of the British-
Indian section of the conference, that is, of all the Indian representatives except the Ruling
Princes, who had come, of course, as their own representatives and in their own capacity as
the sovereigns of their various principalities and states.

The King, not long recovered from his extremely serious illness, made of his opening speech
a most moving appeal to us all to con template the momentous character of the task to which
we had set our hands.

"I shall follow the course of your proceedings," said the King, "with the closest and most
sympathetic interest, not indeed without anxiety but with a greater confidence. The material
conditions which surround the lives of my subjects in India affect me dearly, and will be ever
present in my thoughts during your forthcoming deliberations. I have also in mind the just
claims of majorities and minorities, of men and women, of town dwellers and tillers of the
soil, of landlords and tenants, of the strong and the weak, of the rich and poor, of the races,
castes and creeds of which the body politic is composed. For those things I care deeply. I
cannot doubt that the true foundation of self-government is in the fusion of such divergent
claims into mutual obligations and in their recognition and fulfillment. It is my hope that the
future government of India based on its foundation will give expression to her honorable
aspirations."

Other eloquent and stirring orations followed; and the conference, moving to St. James's
Palace, settled down to its complex and formidable task. We achieved a surface harmony, but

underneath there were deep and difficult rifts of sentiment and of outlook whose effect was
bound to be felt from the outset. In order to understand this it is necessary to restate briefly
the political situation and the state of Indo-British relations as they both stood in this autumn
of 1930. The Simon Commission's Report advanced a scheme which denied central
responsibility and also relegated the idea of a federation of India to a distant and undefined
future. This could not really be satisfactory to anybody, for it offered, not a workable
compromise, but an evasion of an existing — indeed a pressing -political conflict. For while
the whole drive of the Hindu movement to self-government was concentrated on the idea of a
strong central government and the establishment of an immediate democracy, conceived
solely in terms of numbers, in which religious differences counted as such and as nothing
more, Muslim opinion had crystallized steadily in favor of a distribution of powers from the
center to virtually self-governing and autonomous provincial governments. Finally, no one
had as yet evolved the conception of an All-India federation in which the states would be
partners. Therefore none of the major parties at the conference arrived with any definite
scheme — only with conflicting claims. The British Government, not unnaturally, was
somewhat at sea when presented with what seemed to be a series of contradictory and
irreconcilable claims and counterclaims.

The first essential task, as I saw it, was to find some way of bridging the gulf between the
Muslim and Hindu sections of the Britishlndian delegation. Only when we had achieved that
bridge did it seem to me that we could offer to the British representatives our conjoint
proposals for the constitutional development of India.

Pre-eminent among those whose efforts were devoted with zeal and enthusiasm to the same
or closely similar ends was my friend, His Highness the Nawab of Bhopal. He was an
outstanding figure among the Ruling Princes of his time — a devout Muslim, a man of driving
energy and will power, of great physical strength, a sportsman and athlete and a first-class
polo player. He was also a convinced Indian nationalist, eager to throw off India's
semicolonial yoke and do away with her dependent status. He agreed with me entirely that if
we of British India could not find ways and means of settling our own differences of opinion,
we could not go to His Majesty's Government with any formulated set of demands; and this
was leaving out of consideration altogether the protected states. From the first moment that
we met at the Nawab's house, it was my deep conviction that this was what mattered most,
which made me a champion of a Muslim-Hindu understanding about our ultimate view of an
independent India — on the one hand, a truly confederate state or on the other, a state such as
Canada in which the principal and overriding authority and power are reserved for the central
government.

As a preliminary to reaching agreement with our Hindu colleagues we had to secure
agreement inside our own Muslim delegation. At first several of the Muslim delegates, in
particular Mr. Jinnah, were — as they had long been before the conference — suspicious of the
idea of federation. Its dangers were, I well knew, neither remote nor unimportant; to associate
a growing democracy with a number of states in which personal rule was the established and,
as it then seemed, inalienable custom might well be a risky as well as complex innovation;
and also there was the danger that since the majority of Ruling Princes were Hindu, there

might be a serious diminution of the political influence of the Muslim community within the
federation as a whole. However I was convinced that whatever the temporary difficulties and
risks involved in a federal scheme, it still offered the best and the most acceptable solution of
India's political problems, that it offered an opportunity which might never recur, and that if it
required compromise to make it effective, it would be a small price to pay for its obvious and
numerous advantages.

I am happy to think that when within the Muslim delegation we had made our decision in
favor of federation, Mr. Jinnah, who had been its doughtiest opponent, was an inflexibly loyal
and irreproachably helpful colleague throughout all the subsequent discussions and
negotiations.

Since the Ruling Princes had signified their assent to some federal form of government, it
remained now only to win the agreement of the Hindu representatives. I strove to convince
them that if they made the concession of accepting the principle of a federated and not a
united India they — and we — would reap the harvest of the benefits of immediate and large-
scale political advancement for the country as a whole. The guarantees which we asked
consisted of a truly federal constitution; understandings that the Muslim majorities in the
Punjab and Bengal would not, by artificial "rigging" of the constitution, be turned into
minorities; the separation of the Sind from Bombay and its establishment as a separate
Province; the introduction of a full-scale system of constitutional government in the
Northwest Frontier Province; and the assurance of the statutory reservation of a certain
proportion of places in the Army and in the Civil Service for Muslims. If they gave us
assurances of this character, we in our turn would offer them a united front in face of the
British. I even went further and offered, as a special concession, unity of command under a
chosen Indian leader whose orders we would bind the Muslim community to accept. In his
memoirs Sir Chimanlal Setalvad has referred to these offers of mine, and his evidence at least
stands firmly on record that if the first Round Table Conference did not achieve all that was
expected of it, and if, ultimately, not only was Dominion status not brought about but India
had to be partitioned, some at least of the beginnings of these momentous happenings are to
be found in the Hindu delegations' refusal to accept my offer. I am certain that Sapru and
Sastri, in their heart of hearts, wanted to accept our Muslim proposals, but they were afraid of
their Hindu colleagues and, above all, the influence of the Mahasabha. I must formally record
my solemn conviction that had my views been accepted then and there, later history would
have taken a profoundly different course, and there would now have long since been in
existence a Federal Government of India, in which Muslims and Hindus would have been
partners in the day-to-day administration of the country, politically satisfied and contentedly
working together for the benefit of India as a whole. In a subsequent chapter I shall have
occasion to refer to the continued stubbornness and intransigence of Hindu opinion, which at
a much later date rejected the constitution offered it by the British Cabinet Mission. The
formulation of this constitution, in outline and in principle, should have marked the beginning
of the Round Table Conference, if the Hindu representatives, when we met them in the
Nawab of Bhopal's house, had accepted my offer on behalf of the Muslims with the sincerity
with which I put it forward.

That acceptance denied us, the rest of the first Round Table Conference was not of much
essential or practical importance, since the foundation on which its deliberations should have
been built was vague and fragile instead of strong and firm.

One successful step forward seemed then to be of great importance, but time and a train of
great events have shown it to have been minor and transient. This was the Princes'
announcement of their acceptance of the idea of federation. The British representatives at the
Conference hailed it — perhaps not unnaturally from their point of view — as a significant and
constructive advance, of real assistance in the task of securing a devolution of power from the
United Kingdom Parliament to a so-called Indian Federal Parliament.

It gained in impressiveness from the fact that Lord Reading, leader of the Liberal party in the
House of Lords, enfolded with the august aura of prestige which his status as an ex-Viceroy
gave him, and strongly convinced as he was of the importance of a centralized responsibility
in all major spheres of administration and executive authority, gave it his hearty if measured
approval. To the Prime Minister, Mr. Ramsay MacDonald, it seemed salvation and success
for the conference rather than the shipwreck which, so it appeared at the time, would have
been disastrous. Mr. MacDonald's situation throughout the conference was complicated and
delicate, though hardly unique, for it was the kind of situation which he frequently had to face
in his career. At the height of his power he faced it with aplomb and adroitness, but it was
difficult to disregard the fact that, despite all his diplomatic skill and finesse, he was not
unlike the driver who has eight spirited horses in his coaching team and is aware that any
couple can and probably will go off on its own and seek to pull the coach in a totally different
direction from that which he intends.

To the Indian representatives at the conference Mr. MacDonald had to be — and was — our
chairman, presiding with shrewd and benevolent impartiality over our deliberations, wise and
venerated, our guide, philosopher and friend in the tricky mazes of democratic, constitutional
procedure and theory in which we were having our protracted initiation. To his own party,
burdened with office — in 1930, that year of dark foreboding and hints of the turbulence and
the sorrow that were imminent — but without that support of a solid and unthreatened
majority in the House of Commons which alone could ensure effectiveness and permanence
to its decisions, he had to appear as the leader in the long crusade against out-of-date
imperialism, obstructive vested interests, and the emancipator, the creator of Indian freedom
and independence which he sincerely desired to be. In this role he was conscious that his was
an ad vanced and most progressive view of India's problems and that he and his party were
eager to travel swiftly the whole road to Dominion status, with few and minor reservations or
restrictions. But the Conservative Opposition, whose patience he could not possibly afford to
test too highly, was jealously watchful of Britain's imperial interests; and both in Parliament
and in the Press the right-wing "die-hard" element of the Conservative party possessed
powerful and authoritative citadels whence to challenge-perhaps to overthrow-him, if he too
flagrantly disregarded their views.

In these circumstances it was perhaps inevitable that an especial atmosphere of hopefulness
and optimism should envelop this, the conference's one major tangible achievement.

Something, it was felt, above and beyond mere provincial autonomy had been established and
ensured. The lawyers among us, like Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru, let themselves become zestfully
absorbed in the details of what they then believed would lead to a serious and permanent
advance along the road to Indian self-government. I must say that I in my heart of hearts was
always suspicious that our work might not procure any real or lasting results because the
great realities of India in 1930 were being forgotten.

It was forgotten that there were, first and foremost and all the time, fundamental differences
between the Muslim and Hindu peoples that inhabited the subcontinent, and that these
differences were most apparent between the Muslims of the two Northwestern and Eastern
sections of India and the Hindu majority in the rest.

It was forgotten that the intelligentsia — although only ten per cent of the total Hindu
population — numbered between forty and fifty million, and could not possibly be dismissed
as "a mere microscopic minority." It was forgotten that they desired the British to quit India,
bag and baggage, finally and forever; this was the aim for which they labored and strove, and
indeed it was brought to pass in 1947. All the minutiae of an elaborate paper constitution,
with all its cautious safeguards, its neat balancing of power by abstract and theoretical
formulas which were to be embodied in it, seemed to them a pack of cunning and pernicious
nonsense, a lot of irksome tricks by which all that the British seemed with one hand to give
could be — and would be — snatched back with the other.

It was forgotten that the Princes, for all their wealth, ability, personal charm, prestige and
sincere loyalty to the British connection, had in fact very little power or influence. They were
not, of course, the sinister stooges that hostile propaganda often dubbed them, but both their
actual authority and their capacity to sway opinion by their influence had been sapped in long
years during which their subjects — and the Indian people at large — had come to realize that
they were powerless, and incapable of holding an independent view or making an
independent decision, if that view or that decision conflicted with the policy of the all-
powerful British Residents. Thus gradually their support of the federal constitution -though it
took in the British ruling class — was shown to possess very little reality, and to be a shadow
without the substance of power.

By the time the second Round Table Conference assembled in the autumn of 1931 the world
situation had changed vastly, and so had the state of Indo-British relations. The economic
crisis, in all its sharpness and severity, had hit Europe and the United Kingdom. The collapse
of the famous Austrian Credit- Anstalt Bank had led to a general and hasty restriction of credit
and a long steep tumble in world trade. In Britain the number of unemployed mounted to a
vast, grim total in the region of three millions; the publication of the May Report, an
authoritative, officially ordered survey of the country's economic, financial and fiscal
condition, which contained a number of recommendations for economy measures totally
inacceptable to the majority of Mr. Ramsay MacDonald's Cabinet colleagues, precipitated a
major political crisis. In September the King interrupted his annual and cherished holiday at
Balmoral and returned to London, summoning to meet him the various leaders of the political
parties. Thereafter a National Government was formed, charged with the task of dealing with

the crisis; Mr. MacDonald was Prime Minister, supported by Conservatives and Liberals like
Mr. Baldwin, Sir Austen Chamberlain, Sir John Simon and Sir Herbert Samuel. In the
General Election which followed quickly on the formation of this government its supporters,
mainly Conservatives and National Liberals, were returned to power with an overwhelming
majority, and Labor representation in the Commons was reduced to "rump" propositions —
almost the only ex-Ministers left in the House being Mr. George Lansbury, the veteran
pacifist, and Mr. Attlee.

These changes could not but affect the second Round Table Conference; but, grave and
preoccupying as were the events in which Britain and the British Government were involved,
they did not cause its postponement. Meanwhile the patience and the considerable powers of
persuasion of the Viceroy, Lord Irwin — "the tall Christian" as Mr. Mohammed Ali called
him in an historic phrase — had prevailed and Mahatma Gandhi agreed to come to London.

He went in his own personal capacity, but it was generally felt that, even if he did not come
as the nominated leader and representative of Congress, his was the voice of authority and
decision so far as the vast majority of Hindus were concerned.

We Muslims for our part hoped that Mahatma Gandhi, with his unique political flair allied to
his vast personal prestige, would appreciate the fact (and act upon it) that to make a combined
front of Hindus and Muslims would in itself be a major step forward, and that all would
realize that it would offer an unparalleled opportunity for extracting out of the Round Table
Conference a constitution which would be a genuine transference of power from British to
Indian hands and which would give India the status of a world Power. Though Mahatma
Gandhi could not possibly in 1930 have foreseen or hoped for anything like the final solution
of 1947, he must, when he arrived, have hoped — as did most of us from the East at the
Conference — that real power would be transferred, even if India and Whitehall were still
linked by one or two silken strings.

Mahatma Gandhi arrived in London in November, 1931, as the sole representative of
Congress. He was accompanied by the eminent Indian poet, Mrs. Sarojini Naidu. Our first
meeting in our capacity as delegates to the second Round Table Conference occurred at
midnight in my own room at the Ritz Hotel. It may be a suitable moment therefore to pause
in my narrative and sum up my im pressions and recollections of two truly remarkable
personalities.

In one way or another I knew and was in touch with Mahatma Gandhi for more than forty-
five years. I first heard of him about 1899 or 1900 when both he and I were actively
concerned with the status and future of Indians in South Africa, a perennial problem which
was to engage our attention across many years. At that time his philosophy was only
beginning to coalesce, and he had not made the major personal decision of his life, which was
the break with, and the turning away from, modern material progress. On and off we were in
touch for the next ten or twelve years, usually on some facet of the Indian problem in South
Africa. We were in London at the same time shortly after the outbreak of the Lirst World
War; as he had done at the beginning of the South African War he offered his assistance to
the British Government for ambulance and field hospital work. Already he had, however,

traveled far along his own mental and spiritual road, and I was aware that he had decided that
salvation for India and for his fellow countrymen lay in renouncing contemporary,
industrialized and materialistic so-called civilization. I have given an account of our contacts
at the time of the Khilafat agitation in 1920-1921; thereafter Mahatma Gandhi was, for the
rest of his life, a major figure in world history.

I believe that both in Mahatma Gandhi's philosophical outlook and in his political work there
were certain profound inconsistencies, which all his life he strove, without complete success,
to reconcile. The chief, formative spiritual influences of his life were Christ, as revealed in
the New Testament, Tolstoy, Thoreau, and certain exponents of various forms of Hindu
asceticism; yet he was not, in the ordinarily accepted sense, a pure ascetic; he had little
patience and no sympathy with the merely contemplative life of the mystic totally withdrawn
from the world, or with monks, whether Buddhist or Christian, who accept the rule of an
enclosed order. If I may say so, I am convinced that Gandhi's philosophy was not
renunciation of this world but its reformation, with mutual and associative human love as the
dynamic spark in that reformation. Yet this involved for him a certain degree of renunciation.
This attitude toward the products of the industrial and technical revolution of our time was
characteristically ambivalent. He believed that all men ought to have the full benefits — in
generally diffused well-being — of the power over nature which science has put at man's
disposal. Yet he felt that, at man's present level of social and spiritual development, if some
individuals accepted these benefits, then the vast majority would be deprived of them and
would be both proportionally and absolutely worse off than before.

This ambivalence, rooted as it was in a profound mental and spiritual contradiction, was
always evident throughout his life, in his relations with his nearest and dearest friends and in
his teaching and in his practice.

I remember that I once had a long conversation with him in Poona after he had been gravely
ill and had undergone an operation. He was in bed at the Sassoon Hospital, where I went to
see him. His praise and his admiration for the hospital, for the British surgeon who had
operated on him, for the consultants and the nursing staff were unstinted. Yet he could not but
feel that since such a standard of treatment and attention could not be given to every single
one of the millions of India's population, it must be wrong for it to be at his disposal in
Poona. Just as much as everyone else, however, he realized that it would be a crime to abolish
the Sassoon Hospital — and everything which it symbolized and represented — that its
benefits must go to some, since they could not go to all, but to whom? And yet, he felt, and
yet, and yet... his philosophy trailed off into a question mark that was also a protest.

There in his bed in that Poona hospital he faced the impossibility of complete adjustment. It
was this hard fact of incomplete adjustment, in the world as it is, which made him appear at
some moments "for" material progress, and at others "against" it. It gave some critics cause to
doubt either the sincerity of his Christian Tolstoyan ideals or the efficacy of his activities on
the world of practical politics and economics. It would perhaps be more just as well as more
charitable to realize that Mahatma Gandhi was far from alone in the contradictions and the
conflicts of his inner and his outer life. Are not such contradictions the very foundation of life

for all of us, in its spiritual as well as its material aspects; and if we seek to be of any use or
service to ourselves and to our fellow men, can we do otherwise than live, as best we may, in
the light of these contradictions?

Our last talk in 1945-1946 was in its way a reflection in miniature of the whole of Mahatma
Gandhi's spiritual and intellectual life. Its setting and its circumstances illustrated, forcefully
enough, the simple fact that in our world as it is we can never get away from contradictions. I
had come to talk politics with Gandhi; since I was no longer actively a participant in Indian
politics, I had to some extent come as a companion of my old and valued friend, the Nawab
of Bhopal. Bhopal, Chancellor of the still existent Chamber of Princes, was a free lance in the
Muslim ranks of the time, for he had not accepted the Quaid-i- Azam's conviction that only a
partition of the subcontinent could give the Muslims what they wanted. I for my part still
cherished some hopes that the full and final amputation could be avoided, if something on the
lines of the constitution proposed by the last British Cabinet Mission could have been
acceptable. Now I see clearly that I was wrong; amputation was the only remedy. Mahatma
Gandhi and I talked of these matters; we talked of South Africa; then as I walked out, I
changed the subject and asked: "What really is your opinion of Marxism -of Marx himself, of
Engels, of Lenin and of Stalin?"

His answer was as characteristic as it was adroit: "I," he said, "would be a hundred per cent
communist myself — if Marx's final stage were the first stage, and if Lenin's economic ideals
were put immediately into practice."

If — there lay the contradiction. If, as Marx had laid it down, the state would "wither away"
not as the last phase of the revolution but as the first; and if Lenin's economic axiom, "Lrom
everyone according to his capacity; to everyone according to his needs," could be put
immediately into practice, then indeed the Marxist millennium would begin. I countered him
with the orthodox Stalinist argument: the world as it is today contains capitalist-imperialist
states, whose productive capacity is geared not to peace and utility but as a means to the
possible end of aggressive and imperialist war; in such a world the communist state must be
organized in its own defense; and how can there be a free society in which the state has
indeed "withered away" without the essential preliminary phase of the world triumph of
organized socialism?

"Well," said Gandhi, "let one country do it. Let one country give up its state organization, its
police and its armed forces, its sanctions and its compulsions. Let one state really wither
away. The happiness that would there prevail would be so great and so abiding that other
countries would, for very shame, let their capitalist-imperialist societies and states wither
away."

Mahatma Gandhi no more than anyone else could evade the contradiction that lies at the base
of life in this epoch. We have constantly to put up with second-best and probably worse,
since we cannot achieve our full ideal. Gandhi too realized this, despite his hope that
mankind could attain Marx's final phase — a goal which, if it is ever attainable at all, will be

reached by another route than an immediate short cut by way of selected portions of the lives
of Christ, Mohammed and Buddha.

Mrs. Naidu, Gandhi's companion in his midnight conference with me at the Ritz that autumn
night in 1931, was in her way hardly less fascinating a personality. She was one of the most
remarkable women I have ever met, in some ways as remarkable as Miss Nightingale herself.
Her home after her marriage was in Hyderabad. Although her original inclinations and her
upbringing were extremely democratic, she was a poet. Her sensitive and romantic
imagination was impressed by the originality and strangeness as well as the glamour of the
character of the then Nizam of Hyderabad — the father of His present Exalted Highness -a
gentle and timorous man, of a delicate and refined sensibility and sentiment, yet endowed
with great clarity of vision, independence of judgment, and generosity and withal the
possessor of a great heart in a sadly frail frame. He too had poetic aspirations, and some of
his Urdu writings could indeed almost be dignified with the name of poetry. Mrs. Naidu sang
his praises; but she herself was a real poet, who wrote strongly and tenderly of love and of
life, of the world of the spirit and the passions. In that linking of tenderness and strength
which was her nature there was no room for malice, hatred or ill-will. She was a vigorous
nationalist, determined that the British must leave India and her destiny in the hands of
India's children, yet her admiration for Western civilization and Western science — above all
for English literature — was deep and measureless. Her proud freedom from prejudice she
demonstrated at the time of the death of Rudyard Kipling. Kipling's out-andout imperialism,
the rigid limitations of his view of India's political capacity and potentialities — despite his
recognition of their qualities of intelligence and fidelity — were inevitably at the opposite pole
from Mrs. Naidu's outlook. Yet when he died Mrs. Naidu published a statement in which she
paid her full and generous tribute of admiration to his genius — to the poet, the novelist, the
unequaled teller of tales — making it clear beyond all argument that this recognition of the
artist by the artist was utterly distinct from and unaffected by her profound and abiding
dislike of his racial and political philosophy.

Such then were the notable pair who were ushered into my sitting room at the Ritz at
midnight. We posed together for the press photographers, and then settled down to our
conversation. I opened it by saying to Mahatmaji that were he now to show himself a real
father to India's Muslims, they would respond by helping him, to the utmost of their ability,
in his struggle for India's independence.

Mahatmaji turned to face me. "I cannot in truth say," he observed, "that I have any feelings of
paternal love for Muslims. But if you put the matter on grounds of political necessity, I am
ready to discuss it in a co-operative spirit. I cannot indulge in any form of sentiment."

This was a cold douche at the outset; and the chilly effect of it pervaded the rest of our
conversation. I felt that, whereas I had given prompt and ready evidence of a genuine
emotional attachment and kinship, there had been no similar response from the Mahatmaji.

Years later — in 1940 — I reminded him of this. He said that he completely recollected the
episode. "I am very, very sorry," he said then, "that you misunderstood that answer of mine. I

didn't mean that I was aware of no emotional attachment, no feeling for the welfare of
Muslims; I only meant that I was conscious of full blood brotherhood, yes, but not of the
superiority that fatherhood would imply."

And I, on my side, had only meant in that word "father" to show respect for the frailty of his
age — not, of course, frailty in health or mental capacity — and not to hint at any superiority.

This unfortunate initial misunderstanding over words had more than a passing effect. For it
left the impression, which persisted not only that night but throughout the Round Table
Conference, that our attempts to reach a Muslim-Hindu entente were purely political and
without the stabilizing emotional ties of long fellow citizenship and admiration for one
another's civilization and culture. Thus there could be no cordiality about any entente we
might achieve; we were driven back to cold politics, with none of the inspiring warmth of
emotional understanding to suffuse and strengthen our discussions.

This preliminary talk did not take us far. Thereafter we had a further series of conversations -
- usually at midnight in my rooms at the Ritz — I myself presiding as host, and Mr. Jinnah
and Sir Mohammed Shaffi negotiating on one side, and Mahatma Gandhi on the other. The
story of these discussions is long and not, alas, particularly fruitful.

They were informal talks and no record was kept. I said little and left the bulk of the
discussion to Mr. Jinnah and Sir Mohammed Shaffi, and to other delegates who from time to
time took part, notably Sir Zafrullah Khan, Mr. Shaukat Ali and the late Shaffat Ali Khan.
Much of the disputation vividly recalled Fitzgerald's quotation:

Myself when young did eagerly frequent

Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument

About it and about: but evermore

Came out by the same door as in I went.

Always the argument returned to certain basic points of difference: Was India a nation or two
nations? Was Islam merely a religious minority, or were Muslims in those areas in which
they were in a majority to have and to hold special political rights and responsibilities? The
Congress attitude seemed to us doctrinaire and unrealistic. They held stubbornly to their one-
nation theory, which we knew to be historically insupportable. We maintained that before the
coming of the British Raj the various regions of the Indian subcontinent had never been one
country, that the Raj had created an artificial and transient unity, and that when the Raj went,
that unity could not be preserved and the diverse peoples, with their profound racial and
religious differences, could not remain fellow-sleepers for all time but they would awake and
go their separate ways.

However close therefore we might come to agreement on points of detail, this ultimate
disagreement on principle could not be bridged.

The Mahatma sought to impose a first and fundamental condition: that the Muslims should,
before they asked for any guarantees for themselves, accept Congress' interpretation of
Swaraj -self-government — as their goal. To which Mr. Jinnah very rightly answered that,
since the Mahatma was not imposing this condition on the other Hindu members of the
various delegations attending the Round Table, why should he impose it on the Muslims?
Here was another heavy handicap.

Our conditions were the same throughout: very few powers at the center, except in respect of
defense and external affairs; all other powers to be transferred, and especially to those
provinces in which there were Muslim majorities — the Punjab, Bengal, Sind, Baluchistan
and the Northwest Frontier. We were adamant because we knew that the majority of the
Muslims who lived in Bengal and the Punjab were adamant.

Mahatma Gandhi fully recognized the importance of having us in his camp. Who knows? —
perhaps he might have seen his way to accept our viewpoint, but Pundit Malaviya and the
Hindu Mahasabha exerted great pressure against us, deploying arguments based on abstract
political doctrines and principles which, as the partition of 1947 proved, were totally
unrelated to the realities of India.

As time went on the hair-splitting became finer and finer, the arguments more and more
abstract: a nation could not hand over unspecified powers to its provinces; there was no
constitutional way of putting a limit on the devices by which a majority could be turned into a
minority — fascinating academic issues, but with little or no connection with the real facts and
figures of Indian life.

In fairness I ought to mention one practical reform which did emerge from all our discussions
and in the end contributed something to the settlement of 1947. This was the separation of
Sind from Bombay and its establishment as a Province with a Governor and administration of
its own. For at least thirty years previously the continued connection of these two had been an
anachronism; its existence explains much of Sind's so-called backwardness, and the rivalry
and the jealousy that arose between Bombay, the older city which ruled, and Karachi, the
younger city which was ruled.

In the Province of Bombay the I.C.S. officials who attained the highest ranks of the service
tended to have spent years in Marathi or Gujerati districts. Sind differed from other parts of
the Province in race, language, religion and the physical shape of the land, and service in it
required a quite different outlook, mentality and training. Sind had been neglected in matters
like communications, roads and internal development, by an administrative center from
which it was far distant and with which its only connections were by sea or across the
territories of princely states.

A special committee was set up to consider the whole question of the separation of Sind. The
Muslim representatives on it — of whom I was one — did not argue the case on communal
lines; we urged that Sind be separated from Bombay as an act of common justice to its
inhabitants, and on practical and administrative grounds. Apart from one or two members

who represented Bombay and were anti-separation, our other Hindu colleagues supported us,
and our proposal was carried.

The chairman of this particular committee was the late Earl Russell, the elder brother of the
present Earl, better known as Bertrand Russell. He was a lively and interesting personality,
who had endured — and surmounted — the difficulties and the legal and social complications
of a stormy marital career in his early life. He was a grandson of the first Earl — Lord John
Russell, Queen Victoria's famous Whig Prime Minister. Bom and reared in this inmost circle
of the old Whig oligarchy of England, he was himself supremely unclass-conscious, endowed
with a wonderful memory, richly stored, and with great gifts as a raconteur.

He died in the south of France not long after the end of the conference; the news of his death
came as a shock, for I had looked forward to our friendship continuing and enriching itself
for the rest of our lives.

One of his former wives, who lived not far from my own home at Antibes, was no less
remarkable and original a character — the tiny, inimitable and indomitable Elizabeth, of
Elizabeth and her German Garden. She maintained her passion for garden-building to the
end. She lived not far from the country club and golf course at Mougins; she designed much
of its landscape gardening and floral planning; and my wife, Princess Andree, and I consulted
her more than once about our own garden.

To return to the Round Table Conferences: in the end, their many long sessions achieved
little. The Mahatmaji returned to India; the sum total of all our work was a vast array of
statistics and dates, a great many speeches and little or no positive understanding. The second
conference finished, all the delegates dispersed, and we awaited what was in fact the third
Round Table Conference — it was officially known as the Joint Select Committee appointed
by Parliament under the chairmanship of the Marquis of Linlithgow — to draw up the Indian
Federal Constitution.

Meanwhile my ordinary life outside politics had continued tranquilly and eventfully. My
wife, Princess Andree, had throughout the exhausting and protracted sessions of the first two
Round Table Conferences been of quite invaluable support and help to me. For the
conferences had a circumambience of hospitality and sociability, parties, receptions and
dinners innumerable, at which my wife was my constant, graceful and accomplished partner.
In January, 1933, my second son, Sadruddin, was born in the American Hospital at Neuilly,
just outside Paris. At the end of that year Princess Andree paid her first visit to India with me,
leaving our son in the south of France. We traveled all over the country, seeing most of the
famous, beautiful and historical sights; stayed several days with the renowned old Maharajah
of Bikaner; stayed in Calcutta as the guests of the Governor, Sir John Anderson * ; went up to
the hills for a time and traveled on to Burma. We were home in Cannes by April, 1934,
delighted to be greeted by a much-grown, healthy, strong little boy.

* Now Lord Waverley.

Then I found myself fully back in political harness. The third of the series of Indian Round
Table Conferences was upon us. On the British side there had been changes, consequent upon
the formation of the MacDonald-Baldwin National Government. Mr. Ramsay MacDonald
was still Prime Minister, but his support in the House of Commons came now from the
enormous Conservative majority of which Mr. Baldwin was the master. This removed Mr.
MacDonald from direct and close concern in our deliberations about India; consulted in all
important matters he doubtless continued to be, but the effective decisions were, one could
not help feeling, being made by the man in charge of the India Office. This, of course, was
Sir Samuel Hoare, a sensitive, sagacious, broadminded and keenly intelligent statesman, who
was acutely aware of the realities of our mid-twentieth-century world, and — so far as India
was concerned — fully realized that the day of the die-hard imperialist was ended.

The Joint Select Committee assembled in London in the spring of 1934. The Chairman, Lord
Linlithgow, was later to be Viceroy of India. The composition of the committee was as varied
as it was strong. The British representation contained inevitably a heavy Conservative
preponderance; the knowledge and experience of India of individual members varied in
quantity and quality. Respected and influential leaders like Lord Derby and Sir Austen
Chamberlain were at the outset noncommittal; there were others who were frankly opposed to
the whole idea of a federal solution to India's problems. India's representation was on the
whole good; Mahatma Gandhi did not attend, but there was a sizable element of advanced
Indian nationalism, drawn from outside the ranks of Congress. Looking back now on what
happened in the course of this committee, I think I regret Mr. Jinnah's absence as much as
that of the Mahatmaji. It was, I think, extremely unfortunate that we Muslims did not insist
on having Mr. Jinnah with us; had he been a member of the delegation he might have
subscribed to what I consider was the most valuable result of these Round Table
Conferences.

This was the Joint Memorandum, which — for the first time in the history of Indo-British
relations — put before the British Government a united demand on behalf of all communities,
covering practically every important political point at issue. It propounded what would have
been, in effect, a major step forward — the penultimate step indeed before Dominion status.
By it we sought to ensure continuity in the process of the further transfer of responsibility. It
was signed by all the nonofficial Indian delegates; it had been drafted by the delegation's
brilliant official secretary and myself. It was a claim for the transfer to Indian hands of
practically every power except certain final sanctions which would be reserved to the British
Government. Had a constitution been granted along these lines, later critical situations —
India's declaration of war in 1939, the problems which faced the Cripps Mission in 1942, and
the final and total transfer of authority — might all have been much less difficult. Had this
constitution been fully established and an accepted and going concern, it would have been in
due course a comparatively simple operation to lop off those reserve powers which in our
draft marked the final stage of constitutional devolution.

As I said in the course of evidence which I gave before the Joint Committee on the
Government of India Bill:

"I accept the term 'Responsible Government,' though as an ideal my preference is for self-
government either on the American federal plan or on Swiss lines leaving ultimate power
through the Initiative, the Referendum, and perhaps the Recall. But the facts of the situa tion
have to be recognized.... Responsible Government' must be our way toward evolving in the
future some plan more suited to a congeries of great states, such as India will become, and I
believe the way will be found in something akin to the American federal plan."

Despite all (as we thought) its merits, our Joint Memorandum was disowned by Congress,
and therefore the British Government felt compelled in their turn to reject it. In its stead they
brought into being the constitution adumbrated by the Government of India Act of 1935,
which left far too many loopholes for British interference, and indeed actual decision, on
matters which every Indian patriot believed should have been solely for India to decide — for
example, India's entry into the Second World War. Its grossest failing was that it offered no
foundation on which to build; Sir Stafford Cripps, during his mission in 1942, and Lords
Alexander of Hillsborough and Pethick-Lawrence on their subsequent mission were halted by
this unpalatable fact. Neither did the Act supply an impetus to any effort to bridge the rift
between Hindus and Muslims; and in the testing times of 1942 and 1946-1947, the emptiness
in the Act was glaringly revealed. By its reservations and by its want of clarity about the real
meaning of Indian independence, the 1935 Act made a United India an impossibility. It had
to be set aside and the effort made to build up Indian independence from scratch. Then it
became harshly clear that Indian unity was impossible unless it were based on extremely
wide federal, or confederate, foundations.

The second Cabinet Mission of 1947 did finally propose a constitution which would have
maintained the unity of India, but at the price of handing over all ultimate power to the three
confederate states of a Federal India. This was the sort of constitution for which our Joint
Memorandum of 1934 could have naturally and steadily prepared the ground. Congress'
attitude to this last effort was, to say the least, lukewarm; and it too fell by the wayside. In the
end the only solution was that which occurred, and those strange Siamese twins — Muslim
India and Hindu India — that had lived together so restlessly and so uncomfortably, were
parted by a swift, massive surgical operation.

XII

Policies and Personalities at the League of Nations

WITH the Joint Memorandum, and with the termination of the work of the Joint Select
Committee in 1934, my own connection with Indian politics ended. However, I found myself
striking out along a new line in public affairs and taking up new activities which were to be
my main concern and interest in life from the early 1930's until the outbreak of the Second
World War.

These developed from my close association at the India Office with Sir Samuel Hoare. He
and I, in the intervals between our official discussions on the Indian problem, found ourselves
more and more frequently exploring world affairs — in the 1930's an absorbing if formidable
theme.

The curiously facile yet plausible optimism which had buoyed up the hopes of so many in the
1920's broke down rapidly; it gave place to an increasing and deepening anxiety. It is pitiable
now to recall some of the illusions which were fostered in the years immediately after the
First World War. I heard supposedly intelligent people, who habitually moved in circles
which were considered to be well informed, remark, for example, that the war "had not
impoverished but enriched the world and that its apparent cost had been more than met by a
superior system of price control and economic adjustment." Only when the slump came was
it realized that a war has to be paid for. As that realization dawned, it became harshly
apparent that the world was lurching toward a new catastrophe.

Then as now there was no getting away from the question of Ger many and the Germans.
Today as we are all aware, the crux of Europe's difficulties and problems is to be found in
Germany. There is indeed no hope of a real and abiding world peace without a final solution
of the problem of Germany, to be achieved either by a frank and sincere understanding
between Russia on the one hand and the Western Powers under American leadership on the
other, or by the consolidation of a Germany allied with and integrated with Western Europe.
Just as grimly the problem of Germany was with us in the 1930's; questions about where the
Western world was moving, and of how it would work out its destiny, and the great issue of
peace or war were quite inseparable from the question of what was going to happen to
Germany.

Eighty million highly intelligent, industrious, efficient and welleducated people, cooped up in
a comparatively small area between the Rhine and the Vistula, the North Sea and the Alps,
with "colonies" of their kinsfolk settled outside the Reich's borders, in the Sudetenland, in
Austria, and as far away as Rumania and parts of Russia, seeking unity yet conscious of a
long history of religious and dynastic strife, constituted a permanent and enormous question
mark in the very heart and center of Europe. Nor was it the only one of its kind. Fascist Italy
loomed very large — Mussolini's imperial ambitions, his attitude toward Ethiopia and
Albania, his talk of the Mediterranean as "mare nostrum."

Mussolini, for all his crimes and follies for which he paid in his ignominious fall and death,
was in many ways a man of brilliant and powerful individuality. He achieved in the Italy of
the period between the wars a political revival analogous in some respects to the Wesleys'
religious revival in England in the eighteenth century. His revival did not touch every section
of the populace — nor did Methodism. But many of its emotions suffused Italian society as a
whole — far outside the ranks of the Fascist party itself. There was, for example, the longing
for a place in the sun, the feeling that while nations like England, Spain and Portugal had
built up vast daughter-nations overseas, Italy — Rome's successor and inheritor -banned from
expansion in Europe outside the confines of her own peninsula, now had the sacred right and
duty of renewing Rome's imperial mission overseas. Therefore there was a passionate
concentration on Ethiopia — first to wipe out Aduwa's shame and, second and far more
important, to build up in those high Equatorial lands (climatically so similar to many of the
countries of South America) a vast European colony whose people might one day mingle
their blood with that of the native Amharic aristocracy — as the Spaniards had mingled theirs

with the Incas — reducing those whom they considered racially inferior to permanent helot or
peon status.

Away in the Far East Japan was engaged in what came to be known as "the China incident";
the need of a policy of colonial expansion seemed imperative to her leaders; she was already
deeply committed in Manchuria. To topics such as these, real, insistent and ugly as they were,
Hoare and I found ourselves reverting again and again whenever we turned aside from the
constitutional niceties of India's political development.

Hoare gradually became aware that from the moment India began to play a part — however
limited — in international politics, I (so far as making any use of me was concerned) had been
deliberately neglected and cold-shouldered by the Government of India. The reasons for this
policy in New Delhi and Simla were not difficult to analyze; Hoare took their measure
quickly enough. The exalted mandarins of the Indian Civil Service, that all-powerful and
closely knit bureaucracy which governed India, had neither the desire nor the capacity to
appreciate a man of independent position and views like myself, who had first-hand
knowledge of a great many of these problems. They were painfully aware too that were I to
be given any official diplomatic status and be therefore in a position to receive the Viceroy's
instructions, I would not hesitate to make known to the Viceroy my own views and if
necessary to criticize official policy, and that if I were overruled unreasonably, I should
similarly have no hesitation in resigning and in giving my reasons for resignation fully and
with conviction to both the Viceroy and the Secretary of State. If I represented India at any
international conference, there would be no chance of my being a ventriloquist's dummy for
officialdom. Officialdom therefore considered that I would be far more of a liability than an
asset — after all, I might prove the officials to be wrong.

Not unnaturally the bureaucrats rationalized their distaste for me and their fear of me. They
pointed out that I was a race horse owner, that I was an amateur of literature and the arts, that
I had founded Aligarh University as a sectional, if cultural, institution, that since I was Imam
of the Ismailis, my first loyalty would always be to my followers and therefore Government
could not take the risk of employing me. The files in the Secretariat were, I daresay, heavy
with minutes and memoranda about me; and they all added up to the one word "no." Sir
Samuel Hoare saw through the whole elaborate facade and recognized it for what it was —
arrant prejudice.

When arrangements were in train for the Disarmament Conference and the Indian delegation
to the League of Nations was in process of being appointed, Sir Samuel Hoare took the whole
matter up with characteristic energy and thoroughness, drew the Viceroy's attention to the
fact that I had deserved more useful employment, and insisted that I be given a chance to
serve India in the international field. Someone has used about me the phrase "Ambassador
without Portfolio." The Secretary of State urged that it was high time for me to be given
official status.

I think I may claim that I brought to my new task a mind fairly well versed in its main issues.
My grounding in European as well as Eastern political and social history had been thorough.

Ever since adolescence I had read widely and steadily. I was — and still am — a diligent
student of the newspapers, and of those political magazines and quarterlies which, in Britain
and France especially, give an authoritative and often scholarly commentary on all the main
events and trends of our time. I had also for many years lived an active life in both national
and international affairs.

Let me recall the international atmosphere of the spring of 1932, and some of the main
international trends and factors. The U.S.S.R. was seeking to establish at least a superficial
appearance of respectability. We know now that the internal situation in Russia, after the
appalling disruptive efforts of the first Five Year Plan, was parlous. Stalin, by now sole
master of his country's destiny, desired a period of relaxed external tension. In Litvinov he
had a Foreign Minister who knew England well, who had an English wife, who had personal
cognizance of the shrewdness and practical wisdom of British statesmanship and of the
possibilities it afforded, if properly handled, of securing Russia her fit place in the comity of
nations.

Litvinov was himself unaffectedly eager in his desire to promote the idea of his country's
respectability, and to present her to the world as a thoroughly honest woman; the matron
herself stood somewhat hesitant on the threshold — for reasons which became apparent later.
However, social relations with Litvinov and with other members of his mission were at least
possible. On my own initiative I broke the ice (somewhat, I suspect, to the surprise and secret
amusement of my British colleagues, accustomed to the hesitations of previous Indian
members of the delegation), and I gave a special dinner party in Litvinov's honor. His
gratification was obvious. That dinner laid the foundation of a friendship which lasted as long
as Litvinov was in Geneva; and it extended to embrace other Russian diplomats, who never
failed in return to invite me to their social functions. Litvinov indeed began to appear in the
role of a dinnertable diplomat and achieved his own quite real social success. My old friend,
Baron Maurice de Rothschild, who had a beautiful chateau not far from Geneva, took to
giving small informal luncheon parties, bringing together Litvinov and his colleagues with
leading British and French delegates and with representatives of other countries.

The United States had disowned President Wilson and refused to join the League of Nations,
and had proclaimed in sternly isolationist terms America's faith in her own destiny. But by
1932 the effects of the depression were being acutely felt all over the North American
continent; the epoch of Harding-Coolidge isolationism was drawing to a close. The State
Department had become increasingly aware that America could not afford to wash its hands
of the rest of the world; it was decided that the Disarmament Conference offered a convenient
method of exploring the long-unfamiliar international atmosphere of Geneva. Weimar
Germany — unlike the U.S.S.R. — was now a respectable member of the international
fraternity, on terms of at least superficial equality with Britain and France. Had not
Stresemann, Briand and Austen Chamberlain met in heart- stirring amity at Locarno, and had
not Briand signalized the event with the tremendous oration which began "A bas les
cannons..."?

In 1932 the key word was "disarmament." Disarmament was the concept to which so many
high and noble hopes were pinned. Optimism still ran high: get the representatives of the
nations around a table, agreeing in principle on disarmament, and let them work out the
practical details of disarming — the melting down of the guns and the rifles, the scrapping of
the battle cruisers, the limitations on the use and the armament of aircraft — and surely world
peace could be made sure and stable.

Yet beneath this optimism there ran an undercurrent of doubt and fear. Were prospects as
bright as many tried to believe? Was Weimar Germany all that she seemed to be? Ebert and
Stresemann were gone; Briining battled against a strange swirl of increasingly hostile forces,
some of which were economic but many blatantly and violently political. Had all the effort
that had gone into trying to woo Germany for democracy been in vain? Had the mountain
labored and brought forth merely a negligible mouse?

A new word had come into current political phraseology: Nazism, which we were told meant
National Socialism; it seemed a confused and extremely German version of Italy's Fascism,
was already capturing the loyalty and the imaginative and romantic idealism of thousands of
Germany's youth, and was associated with a man called Adolf Hitler.

Now the military adviser to the German mission in Geneva at this time was none other than
General — later Field Marshal — von Blomberg, the man who later became chief of Hitler's
Reichswehr, was Hitler's representative at King George Vi's Coronation, and finally fell into
disgrace in somewhat mysterious circumstances -allegedly because of his unsuitable
marriage. This Prussian soldier and I established quite friendly relations. From him I heard a
good deal about the men who were then trying to rule Germany — tiny midgets, he called
them contemptuously, who had stepped into Stresemann's man-sized shoes. He was impatient
with what he thought their combination of doctrinaire liberalism and practical incompetence
in statecraft.

Such then was the troublous sea onto which I now was launched. The Secretary of State's
wishes prevailed in the Secretariat in New Delhi. I was appointed a member of the Indian
delegation to the Disarmament Conference, nominally as second-in-command to Sir Samuel
Hoare, but to take charge as soon as he left. I was also appointed chief Indian representative
at the 1932 Assembly of the Feague. Thus began a phase in my public life which was
protracted, with little or no intermission, until Hitler's armies marched into Poland and the
fabric of world peace which the Feague strove so hard to maintain was violently shattered.

The optimism that was prevalent in Geneva in 1932 was a mood which I could not fully
share. A more strenuous and a more realistic effort was needed, I felt sure, to bring about the
fruition of our hopes. As best I could, I sought to expound my own ideas and beliefs in this
new arena to which I had been summoned. I made a speech of some length, and with all the
earnestness that I could muster, at the fourteenth plenary session of the Feague:

We have found that armaments still hold sway and that the feeling of insecurity still persists.
It is by no means certain that the war to end war has been fought and won. On the moral side
we must set ourselves to remove the paralyzing effects of fear, ill-will and suspicion. On the

material side it is absolutely essential that the nonproductive effort devoted to warlike
preparations should be reduced to the bare minimum. In distant India, no less than in Europe,
the world war created a host of mourners and left a legacy of bitter tragedy. Over a million of
my fellow countrymen were called to arms, of whom more than fifty thousand laid down
their lives. India's own scale of armaments allows no margin for aggressive uses. The size of
her forces has to be measured with reference to the vastness of her area and the diversity of
her conditions. The fact is so often forgotten that the area of India is more than half that of the
whole of Europe, and her population nearly one-fifth of that of the entire globe. There is a cry
going up from the heart of all the peaceloving citizens of every country for the lessening of
their military burdens, for a decrease of the financial load which those burdens impose, for
the security of civil populations against indiscriminate methods of warfare, and above all,
for security against the very idea of war.

The words of many of us who, in those years, spoke out in the effort to prevent a Second
World War have gone down the wind. But that is not to say that the effort was not worth
making or that we were not right to make it. The vast palace in Geneva that housed the
League of Nations is no longer put to the purpose for which it was built, but the United
Nations Organization, which has arisen out of the ruin and the tragedy which we strove to
avert, shows — by continuing our work in a new era and with new techniques — that we did
not labor entirely in vain.

For the rest of the thirties the work of the League, and of its offshoot the Disarmament
Conference, absorbed most of my time and my interest. I found myself in Geneva for months
at a time, through many harassing and disillusioning happenings — Japan's aloof snubbing of
the League, Germany's dramatic exit from it, and then the direct challenge of Mussolini's
aggression in Ethiopia. Early in this period I cemented a close friendship with Mr. Arthur
Henderson, the President of the Disarmament Conference. Henderson was perhaps one of the
most remarkable statesmen who have come out of the British Labor Movement. He had been
a conspicuously successful and much-liked Foreign Secretary in Mr. Ramsay MacDonald's
second Labor administration, but he had not found himself able to support his leader in the
rapid and dramatic change-over which resulted in the formation of the National Government.
Therefore he retained the passionate and proud loyalty of Labor in Britain, but the immediate
effect of his decision was to deprive him of power and of office. It was universally felt that it
would be disastrous, for the world as for Britain, to lose his sagacity, his experience and his
flair in the spheres of international affairs in which he had made so notable a mark. He was
therefore appointed permanent President of the Disarmament Conference and until his
untimely death he discharged his duties in this post — in face of much disappointment and a
heartbreakingly uphill struggle — with courage and distinction. Our acquaintance ripened
rapidly into a sincere and mutually affectionate friendship of great warmth. His mind and his
achievements were as remarkable as his character was lovable. Like most of the Labor
leaders of his generation, he was a genuine son of the people who from humble beginnings
had made his way upward in the world to the high, onerous and lonely position which he
occupied. He was modest and forthright, shrewd, imperturbable, quiet of speech, and of
rocklike integrity. A labor leader of a younger generation, Mr. Morgan Phillips, has said that

the origins of the British Labor movement are to be found in Methodism rather than
Marxism; this was certainly true of Arthur Henderson, for he remained all his life a serenely
devoted Methodist. His wife had been his faithful companion on his long and strenuous road;
she was a woman of great sweetness and generosity of character, staunch and true and, in her
own fashion, very wise.

Henderson was often my guest at my villa at Antibes; Bernhard Baron, the millionaire and
philanthropist, would sometimes drive to Monte Carlo to spend an hour or two in the Casino,
and Henderson would happily go along for the ride. When they reached the Casino, however,
Henderson sat contentedly in the car, waiting till Baron came out again. Henderson was as
steadfast as he was good, as selfless as he was courageous. We came to rely on each other for
advice and support in the difficult and trying times through which we steered our way in
Geneva.

The year 1935 was a memorable one. It was the year of Mussolini’s attack on Ethiopia. It was
the year in which the Government of India Act came into being — the last major piece of
Indian legislation enacted by the Parliament of the United Kingdom until the brief, dramatic
statute of twelve years later which ended the British Raj in India. It was the year of my great
and good friend King George V's Silver Jubilee; and I fully shared the sentiments of
gratitude, affection and loyalty with which his people so signally greeted the King and Queen
Mary. For me it was Bahram's year, for during that summer that magnificent horse won the
Two Thousand Guineas, the Derby and the St. Leger — the Triple Crown of the Turf, as the
sporting journalists called this feat — the first horse to achieve it since Rock Sand, thirty-two
years before.

I was able to be present at Epsom when he won his Derby -Freddie Fox was the jockey — and
of course I led him in after his victory. I was immensely honored by being the guest (in
company with other members of the Jockey Club) of Their Majesties, the King and Queen, at
a celebration dinner at Buckingham Palace. Queen Mary herself had ordered that the table
decorations should be in my racing colors, green and chocolate.

I was not in quite such happy surroundings when Bahram won the St. Feger. By then I was
back at my duties in Geneva. I can at least however claim a record: I am sure I must have
been the only member of the Assembly of the Feague ever to be called away to hear that his
horse had won the St. Feger.

But the international scene by now was gloomy and its skies were darkly overcast. The little,
glimmering lights of peace and hope which had been set burning since the end of the First
World War were going out, one by one. Exactly a fortnight before Mussolini launched his
attack on Ethiopia, I spoke in the Assembly of the Feague of Nations. The time had passed, I
was convinced, for smooth glib words. On my own and my country's behalf I spoke as
frankly and as gravely as I could:

India is troubled by the Feague's lack of universality and by the great preponderance of
energy which the Feague devotes to Europe and European interests. India is troubled by these
dramatic failures, by the long-drawn-out and fruitless Disarmament Conference and by the

fact that the rearmament of States members is in full swing. India's criticism of the League is
directed to its shortcomings and not its ideals. The world is at the parting of the ways. Let
wisdom guard her choice.

As 1935 drew to its close I went to Bombay to celebrate my Golden Jubilee as hereditary
Imam of the Ismailis. Half a century had passed since I, a small, shortsighted, solemn boy,
surrounded by my bearded elders, had ascended the gadi. The climax of the celebration was
the ancient ritual of weighing me against gold. Earlier we had a special ladies' party at the
Jamat Khana, at which my beloved mother sat on my right and my wife on my left. The
actual weighing ceremony was both stately and heart stirring, evok ing as it did strong
currents of reciprocal affection between my followers and myself.

Our rejoicings, however, were cut short by the grievous news of the passing of my old,
staunch and good friend, the King-Emperor, George V, who died at Sandringham in January,
1936. 1 thought of all the years of our friendship, of the many tests and trials it had undergone
in war and in peace, of his constant kindness and consideration to me in all matters great and
small. The last word which I had had from him, indeed, had been a warm message of
congratulation on my Jubilee. We immediately abandoned all further festivities out of respect
to his memory, and I read out this brief statement to my assembled followers:

I am deeply touched to hear the terrible news of the death of the KingEmperor. I have
decided to stop all activities in connection with my Golden Jubilee celebrations, except the
purely religious rites. We are in deep mourning. I myself will wear black clothes, and my
people will wear their national mourning dress. The King-Emperor was not only a great ruler,
but he was in the true sense a great man. His Majesty was always most kind to me personally.
I am sure that the new King-Emperor will, with his knowledge of the world and of the whole
Empire, be a worthy successor to Queen Victoria, to King Edward and to King George.

Although within a few brief months events had turned out sadly different, I do not for an
instant regret or withdraw that last sentence of my statement. I had long known the attractive,
brilliant and lovable man who acceded to his father's throne, that January day in 1936,
surrounded by an Empire's loyalty and affectionate high hopes of a long and illustrious reign.

I first met him at York House, St. James's Palace in 1898, when he was a child of four. His
mother, then Duchess of York, brought two little sailor-suited boys into the drawing room to
shake hands with me — David and Bertie, as they were known within their family. The elder
boy's vivid personality stamped itself instantly on my imagination; he had a look of both
intelligence and kindness, and a limpid clarity of expression, which were most impressive. I
still possess a photograph of the two boys as they were then, with their names written across
it by their mother.

In the years that followed I encountered him often, in successive phases of that long and
devoted career of patriotic public service of which the culmination was his accession to the
Throne and to the duties for which he had so arduously prepared himself. I recall the shy,
slim lad staying in Paris to learn French in his late teens, wondering (he who later in life was
to become a devoted Parisian) "what my grandfather saw in Paris." I remember his early

years as Prince of Wales. I remember the gallant young soldier, who strove in every way to
evade Lord Kitchener's stern order that the heir to the Throne not be allowed near the front
line. I knew the man whose spirit was stamped forever by the sense of slaughter and waste of
those years of trench warfare, the man who has said so poignantly and so truly, in his own
memoirs, "I learned about war on a bicycle" — endlessly trundling his heavy Army bicycle
along the muddy roads of Flanders, to places like Poperinghe and Montauban and the villages
around Ypres, the man who in after years in that annual ceremony at the Royal Albert Hall
recited Laurence Binyon's "For the Fallen" with so rapt a sense of dedication and of loss.

I remember in the years after the First World War the "Ambassador of Empire" who
ceaselessly traveled the Commonwealth and Empire and the whole world in the service of his
country and his people. In the early twenties I met him more than once, strained and tired out
as he was, during his extremely testing visit to India. At a big state banquet at St. James's
Palace, given in honor of the then Crown Prince of Japan — the present Emperor — I sat next
to the Prince of Wales. I remember his saying to me then that if Japan's request for the
renewal of the Anglo- Japanese Alliance were refused — for this was the real reason of the
Crown Prince's visit -the Japanese would never forgive us. His voice had not the robust, far-
hailing quality that was in his father's and his grandfather's; his tone was in comparison with
theirs always quiet and restrained, but he spoke with their earnestness, conviction and faith in
the importance of what he said.

It was a commonplace of the 1920's to say that the Prince of Wales made friends wherever he
went. That was no formal tribute but a simple statement of the truth. Why was it? What was
the source of his immense and irresistible attraction, which won the sympathy and admiration
of the masses no less than the respect of the powerful few? The Times correspondent who
accompanied him on one of his many journeys found, I am convinced, the true explanation.
The Prince of Wales, he said, was an artist. There lies the real secret of his temperament, of
his tragedy as much as of his achievements; he was a bom artist. He won the affection and
the understanding of millions as only the greatest of artists can do, not by dramatic or
thaumaturgic technique, but as a receiving and an "offering up" anew to and for others of that
which he received from them and evoked in them. That is why all his state visits, with their
numerous mass encounters, drained so much out of him. When he came back after a long
drive through thousands of cheering people, the exhaustion which he felt had causes far
deeper than the merely physical. He always was in profound nervous, mental and spiritual
accord with those who so eagerly surrounded his slowly moving car.

In the early spring of 1936 I had my first audience with him after his accession. He was fully
aware of my recent and current activities. He knew that for the past few years I had been
India's chief delegate at the Disarmament Conference and at successive sessions of the
Assembly of the League. He knew that I was gravely perturbed by the increasingly menacing
state of world affairs; burdened — like so many of us who to any extent were behind the
scenes in those years — by a deepening sense of the doom which we sought to avert; aware of
the cancer at the heart of international, especially European, politics; alarmed too at what
looked like American indifference and at the existence of what in those days we called
Russia's Gunpowder Plot, her supposed plan to blow up capitalist civilization by a war in

which the Soviet Union would take no sides but at the end of which she would appear as
beneficiary and all-powerful arbitrator.

The Lords-in-waiting and the India Office officials who had come with me expected, I
daresay, that I would have the ordinary perfunctory and brief audience. However, they cooled
their heels for an hour and a half or more in the anteroom, while I underwent at the King's
hands one of the most searching, serious and well-informed cross-examinations that I have
ever experienced. I walked out at last filled with admiration not only for his knowledge,
gleaned by his wide and deep reading of all the official and Cabinet papers which came to
him, but even more for the seriousness of his outlook and the penetration of his insight.

During 1936 I met the King several times, at private cocktail parties and at luncheon in the
houses of one or two close friends. At the bigger gatherings, even in the midst of flippant
people, I was greatly struck with the King's utter lack of flippancy, his seriousness and his
concentration on his duties. After my first audience and whenever I met him on these private
and unofficial occasions during those months, he was accompanied by Mrs. Wallis Simpson,
now the Duchess of Windsor. I found her as intelligent as she was charming, admirably well
informed, devoid too of flippancy, and seriously and conscientiously striving to adjust her
outlook to the King's. At two different houses I met them at luncheon, and on each occasion
the only other person present, beside our host and hostess was my old friend — himself an
ardent and persevering seeker after spiritual enlightenment — Philip Kerr, Marquis of
Lothian. * Our conversation could not have been in its general tone more serious and more
anxious.

* Subsequently H. M. Ambassador to Washington; died 1940.

Naturally neither the King nor Mrs. Simpson ever mentioned their personal affairs to me or in
my hearing, but of course wherever one went in London that year, the whispers and the
rumors abounded. I have already mentioned a poignant conversation which I had had with
Queen Mary on my return to London from Geneva. Later in the year, in July I think, a great
friend of Queen Mary's told me that every day she wept bitterly when she thought of this
hidden, unspoken catastrophe which loomed for her dearly loved son.

It was during this same critical period that Lord Wigram, when the two of us were lunching
alone, said something which struck me greatly. “King Edward VIII," he said, "has it in him to
be the greatest King in the history of our country. With his charm and his personal prestige he
can carry with him the whole population - regardless of class."

Lord Wigram, after all, spoke out of long and deep experience. He had been King George V's
private secretary, in succession to Lord Stamfordham, and a calm, wise, loyal counselor and
friend he was; but before he became a courtier he had been a serving officer in the Indian
Army and then on Lord Curzon's staff when he was Viceroy. His equable and unimpassioned
judgment seemed to me of considerable importance; yet I could see that, even as he spoke, he
was mastering strong and extremely painful and anxious emotions.

By the autumn I was back in Geneva. The King spoke to me once on the telephone; our
conversation necessarily was guarded; yet I was aware once more of the profound sadness
and the complexity of the drama in his own life and in the life of the country, whose bleak
climax was then so near. The swiftness and the completeness of the final irrevocable decision
were utterly tragic. Years have passed, and they have brought inevitably a new perspective to
our view of those somber happenings of the first weeks of December, 1936. After King
Edward VIII's abdication, his younger brother acceded as George VI. We are all now
gratefully and gladly conscious of the magnitude of his selfless and steadfast service to his
country and to the cause of human freedom in his sixteen years' reign, and of the immense,
quiet goodness of his character, so like his father's.

George VI was blessed — as his elder brother was impelled to remark in the most poignant
public utterance of his life — in a supremely happy marriage. His gracious Consort, now
Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother, was as persevering and as selfless in public service as he
was, always at his side to sustain and support him through many testing years, which covered
the dangers and the ardors of the Second World War and the postwar period of farreaching
social and economic change.

Now a beloved, charming young Queen reigns as Head of the Commonwealth. She brings to
her task mental and spiritual qual ities of the highest order, and it is already obvious that she
has earned the deep loyalty and devotion of her peoples all over the world. She is sustained
by the steadfast love of her husband; and her home, like that of her father before her, is a
model of tranquil and affectionate family life. The omens are auspiciously set for a splendid
new Elizabethan era in Britain's long, eventful history. The institution of the Crown in Britain
and the Commonwealth has quickly and triumphantly survived its severest test; on this score
therefore there is no reason for regret.

Yet considered as a human happening in its own right, apart altogether from its constitutional
and political consequences, surely the story of Edward, Duke of Windsor and his Duchess is
one of the very great love stories of all time. Set it alongside the imperishable, tragic and
beautiful stories of Persian or Arabian legend, alongside the stories of Anthony and Cleopatra
and of Romeo and Juliet, and does it not stand forth as perhaps the most moving of them all?

When I was discussing my religious views, I quoted the saying of the poet Hafiz to the effect
that those who are not granted the grace and aid of the Holy Spirit to achieve direct
communion with that Divine Presence in which we live, move and have our being, may yet
attain blessed and pure felicity if they achieve the heights of human love and companionship
— something not won lightly or easily, but the crown of a lifelong attachment, in which one
human being devotes all that he has, knows and feels to the love and service of another.

Surely his former Majesty, King Edward VIII, who lost and sacrificed so much, has been
granted, if not the supreme, at any rate the lesser and by no means unworthy, blessing and
illumination of a durable and all-enfolding love.

I have one personal postscript to add to this sad yet stirring story. In the autumn of 1937 I was
staying in Berlin at the same time as the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. I called on them and

we had a long, extremely intimate and extremely revealing conversation. I was deeply
affected by the obvious and transparently sincere loyalty and devotion with which the Duke
talked of his brother, speaking of him always as the King; the whole tenor of his remarks was
that of fidelity from a devoted subject to his sovereign. Later that year when I was in London
I had an audience with King George VI; the ostensible reason for my being summoned to the
palace was that I should give His Majesty an account of the interview which I had had with
Hitler. Before I left, the King asked me, "You saw my brother?" I then told him the substance
of the Duke of Windsor's conversation with me, and I stressed the warmth and the obvious
sincerity of the Duke's loyalty. The King was clearly most deeply moved by his elder
brother's willing and complete acceptance of the new situation — so moved in fact that I
myself was equally stirred.

Can we sustain the peace, or must there in the end be war? This was the question with which
we were faced at Geneva, year after year. To understand its intensity, and to understand the
way in which each of us, as individuals or as representatives of our countries, strove to find
our own answer, it is necessary to explore a good deal of the historical and political
background. Munich has constantly been hotly attacked as a single, unparalleled and
causeless act of appeasement, and Neville Chamberlain, the British Prime Minister, whose
name is forever associated with Munich, who thought it his greatest triumph and found it to
be his greatest tragedy, has been criticized in the most unmeasured and ferocious terms. Yet
who are, in fact, the "guilty men," whom partisan propaganda so vituperatively pursued?
What are the real reasons, not the superficial "blame," for Munich?

We must first probe far back into the story of Germany's relations with the rest of Europe.

We must look afresh at that unfortunate, false, and unjust assertion, made at the end of the
First World War and given explicit formulation in the Versailles Treaty, that Germany's and
Germany's alone, was the war guilt. Whatever strict apportionment of guilt there should be, it
is by no means all Germany's. Nearly half the responsibility was Russia's. What about the
folly, the incompetence, the insane ambition and the revengeful self-satisfaction of a man like
Isvolsky who, as Czarist Ambassador in Paris, said to me — not to me alone, for he said it to
everyone he could — "C'est ma guerre"? What about the same idiot boast on the lips of
Sazunov, that weak and foolish man who, despite all the warnings given him by abler men
like Witte and Rosen, did not shrink in anticipation from a war that was to ruin his country,
his Emperor and his own class?

However at the end of the war, to millions in the victorious nations, blinded by their own
propaganda, Imperial Germany seemed a convenient scapegoat. Germany was branded as the
only criminal. And then, almost before the ink had dried on the signatures to the Versailles
Treaty, a significant development occurred in political thought. The intellectuals of the Left
in Britain, profoundly affected by the limpidly persuasive writings of John Maynard Keynes,
discovered that their consciences were troubled over Versailles' injustice, and over the
admission written into it, above the enforced signature of Germany's representatives, that
Germany alone was to blame for all the horrors and miseries of the First World War; and
until Hitler came to power, they were very vocal in their criticisms of the 1919 settlement.

Doubts about not merely the wisdom but the morality of the Versailles Treaty were by no
means limited to the highbrows of the Left. Many a conscientious political thinker on the
Right — though perhaps more pragmatic, more inclined to see the issue in terms of power
politics — had severe misgivings about the justification, at the price even perhaps of a war, of
maintaining a status quo founded upon a falsehood. The constitution of the League of
Nations, which formed part of the Versailles Treaty, was similarly questioned. Under this
Constitution the League was endowed in theory with absolute authority to right all wrongs —
"to break down this sorry scheme of things and replace it by something nearer heart's desire"
— but, as familiarity with the actual processes of the League quickly made clear, its
constitution was in fact so pliable that it was impossible for the League to right any wrong,
however glaring.

The status quo had everything on its side. There was as much chance of achieving any real
rectification of frontiers, any adjustment of conflicting national claims, through the League,
as there would have been of successfully steering a bill providing for uni versal suffrage
through the House of Lords of 1820. The ideologues of the immediate postwar era
worshipped the constitution of the League, but like most idols it had feet of clay. It was, in
fact though not in name, a repetition of Alexander I's Holy Alliance of 1815. It was
Mettemich's system, dressed up anew as democracy, freedom and — sacred word — self-
determination. But it had been so adjusted that the "haves" among the nations had things all
their own way, and the only hope for the "have-nots" of changing their inferior status lay
either in sowing disunity among the "haves" or in building up their military power,
sedulously and secretly, until they were able to launch direct and open aggression. This
failing in the League was as durable as it was palpable. As I said later to Lord Halifax when
he was Foreign Secretary, "You cannot make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."

Defects of this character could not long be hidden. The bloodstained Gran Chaco dispute
between Bolivia and Paraguay was in a remote — and at the time strategically insignificant —
region, but the difficulties it presented were real and grave, and those of us who had any
share in reaching a fairly just solution of this problem were acutely conscious of them.

Then there arose the protracted Sino-Japanese trouble. Here the slate was, from the outset, the
reverse of clean. At the conclusion of their successful campaign against Czarist Russia early
in this century, the Japanese had built up a special and powerful position for themselves in
Manchuria, from Port Arthur almost to the walls of Peking itself, under which China's
sovereignty was still recognized but the country was administered and exploited by Japan as
if it were a Japanese protectorate. The warlords of northern China had, in Bismarck's phrase,
"a telegraph wire" with Tokyo — indeed a full and constant connection by telephone and
radio as well. Though China was for years torn by internal strife, this relationship became
more and more bitterly hostile as the extent and the determination of Japan's ambitions were
disclosed. For a long time it was customary to talk politely about "the differences" between
China and Japan; but they were in fact a war, to which we in Geneva strove to put an end.

From the League's point of view China's legal case was utterly unanswerable. Japan had no
right in China except in the various concessions — the ports, railway lines, commercial

depots, and bases — which she had received from China, or won from Russia to whom China
had voluntarily given them. Her territorial pretensions, open or veiled, were without a shred
of legal justification.

But when the League rebuked Japan and sought to intervene, it seemed to Japan's rulers that
the pot was loudly calling the kettle black. Were they not, the Japanese argued, doing in the
twentieth century precisely what countries like Britain and France had done in building up
their empires a century or two earlier? They would not and could not accept the claim that,
under the constitution of the League, a new world had come into being and with it a new
international morality binding on all nations, under which the only way to effect any political
change was through the League's elaborate, complicated and devious machinery. It was, in
the Scriptural phrase, far easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for Japan to
procure de jure recognition by the League of her de facto position on the northern Asiatic
mainland. The "haves" said No; it was only open to the "have-nots" to break through or to
circumvent this wall of negatives.

When the Sino-Japanese dispute was brought before the League, I approached Sir John
Simon, then British Foreign Secretary, on my own initiative and told him that I felt it was my
duty as India's representative — as an Asiatic — to do all I could to bring about a direct
understanding by conversations between China and Japan. Lord Simon has been bitterly
assailed in many quarters, but he possessed — he still possesses — the mind of a statesman,
not a bureaucrat. He saw immediately that although such a departure by an Indian
representative, at a time when India was still without selfgovernment, might seem unusual if
unaccompanied by overt British support, the value of an Asiatic intermediary in a solely
Asiatic dispute might be considerable. I was authorized to see what I could effect. I had
several conversations with both Chinese and Japanese representatives. On one final occasion
I got together the heads of the Chinese and Japanese delegations in a supreme effort to bring
about an understanding; the three of us were actually photographed together.

However, a good deal more than the flash of a press photographer's bulb was required. The
negotiations broke down. Subsequently hostilities in Asia were renewed on a large scale. The
"China incident" became all-out war in Shanghai and in central China. Ultimately Japan left
the League. Manchuria was separated from China, and the Japanese set up a puppet Emperor
in Manchuria in the person of a scion of the old Manchu imperial dynasty, the man who,
according to legitimist views, ought to have been Emperor of China. In central China conflict
continued without cessation thereafter between the Japanese and the forces of General Chiang
Kai-shek until, with Japan's attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941 — the extension of the Second
World War to the Far East.

Personalities as well as policies were of significance in those difficult years. I came to know
many remarkable men in Geneva, as we battled with successive problems and crises. The first
Secretary General of the League was Sir Eric Drummond * — an ideal man in a difficult, a
well-nigh impossible, position. He was not only aware that there were two sides to any
argument, he saw every question fully in the round. In my many conversations with him I
began to appreciate the complexity and the far-reaching effects of every apparently small

move or decision made by the League. It seemed that we were forever watching the widening
ripples on the pool caused by the throwing of seemingly small pebbles. Yet I must not give
the impression that Eric Drummond was in favor of immobility in international affairs, or of
stubbornly preserving the status quo. No one, I daresay, had better appreciated the lessons of
history than he; no one realized more clearly, for example, that — in spite of all that
Alexander I and Metternich strove to establish — the European system established in 1815
had collapsed in something near chaos by 1830. Drummond had a flexible mind and highly
developed powers of persuasion; I know that many a dispute that might have grown serious
was settled in his office simply by his exercise of tact and sagacious foresight. However, his
influence and authority were limited, for the tradition had transferred itself from the national
to the international plane that permanent officials had no views of their own, and therefore as
Secretary General he had no right to initiate policy on his own.

* Later the Earl of Perth.

Briining, the German Chancellor, was a forlorn, pathetic figure. A sincere Christian, a devout
Roman Catholic, he was obviously beset, in the midst of our troubles, by a genuine Christian
conscience, by his patriotism as a German, by the growing difficulties of keeping democracy
afloat in Germany, by the mounting challenge of the Nazis, and by the increasing feebleness
of the aged Hindenburg's attachment to the republic which had elected him as its President.

Benes of Czechoslovakia was in his different way a no less tragic figure. He fully realized the
dangers to which his country was exposed. More than once over a coffee or at luncheon he
talked to me of his troubles and his difficulties. He knew that the German minority in
Czechoslovakia had to be won over, persuaded to give up their Pan-German dreams and
become loyal and sincere citizens alongside the other racial groups in the country; but he
realized that a heavy price had to be paid for such an achievement. He continued, however, to
pin high hopes to it. Yet whenever he went into the Sudetenland, to places like Carlsbad or
Marienbad, he was faced with the limitations and the potential breakdown of his policy
because the Czechs in those areas, although in a minority, strove to assert their superiority —
politically and economically, and by the use of educational and linguistic barriers — to the
German- speaking majority. His was a classic example of the way in which a wellmeaning
political leader cannot persuade his followers to carry out his express and sincere intentions.

Someone who was then embarking on his great career I encountered first in Geneva in those
years — Mr. Anthony Eden. An immediate point of sympathy and understanding between us
was that the subject in which he had taken honors at Oxford, immediately after the First
World War, was Oriental languages; he had studied Persian and had known my very old
friend Dr. E. G. Browne, the Orientalist and authority on Persian, who was Professor of
Arabic. This shared friendship and our shared knowledge and understanding of, and fellow
feeling for, Islamic literature, thought and philosophy, were special ties, uniting us more
closely than the normal affiliations and social propinquity natural between a representative of
the British Government and a representative of India at a meeting of the Assembly of the
League. It has not been difficult for someone who has watched, as I have, the careers of so
many eminent statesmen, past and present, to foresee Mr. Eden's ultimate and splendid

destiny. Today I join my prayers with those of so many others that, when at length the great
call comes and he takes up the highest position of all, he will have regained in full the health
and the strength which, over past years, he has expended so generously in the service of his
country and of humanity in general.

The next great crisis which faced the League was Italy's assault on Ethiopia in 1935. It
presented an even more serious challenge than the Sino- Japanese dispute, for however
aggressive Japan's actions were, there were explanatory, if hardly ameliorative, factors
involved, which, as I have indicated, made it impossible for any of the Great Powers at least
to regard that as a clean-cut case. All the various concessions, with all their legal
equivocations about status, and (since the Japanese occupation of Korea) a common frontier
along the Yalu River, were in themselves occasions for quarrels in which lack of diplomatic
satisfaction could — and usually was -made the excuse for military action. The whole
situation was morally indefensible, of course, but it had centuries of usage to sustain it and
give it at least the superficial appearance of respectability.

Italy, however, possessed none of these opportunities or facilities for whitewashing her
aggressive, imperialistic designs on Ethiopia. Italy's only case was one of naked need for
living space for her ever-increasing population, if they were to remain Italian. Libya's
possibilities of intensive and large-scale exploitation and colonization were few; fertile areas
in this long stretch of the Mediterranean littoral were limited, and the desert was vast. Italy's
surplus population seemed therefore faced with one of two possibilities. Either they could
emigrate across the Atlantic to North or South America or to neighboring Mediterranean
lands like Egypt, Morocco, Tunisia and Algeria, and be lost to Italy as citizens; or they could
remain in Italy, millions too many for her limited soil to bear, with a standard of living far
below that of any of their western European neighbors and thoroughly unworthy of the nation
that had succeeded Imperial Rome.

Mussolini made no secret of his intentions. He made stirring speeches in towns and cities all
over Italy, and his eloquence roused thousands to passionate enthusiasm and sympathy. At
the diplomatic level he gave more than one warning, couched in terms, however, which were
ambiguous enough for him to be able to interpret the silence with which France and Britain
greeted them as consent, if not as direct encouragement to him. Whatever the shadowy
background of the Duce's mental processes, there could be no ignoring the blatant openness
of his preparations, throughout the summer of 1935, for the military conquest and annexation
of the free, independent and sovereign state of Ethiopia, on pretexts which were flimsy in the
extreme. The Ethiopians were faced with a tragic choice: either to accept an ultimatum from
Mussolini or, rejecting it, to wage a hopeless war which could only end in total military
defeat and subjection.

The League was thus thrust into a hopelessly difficult situation; and there developed that deep
and catastrophic division of opinion in Britain and in France and indeed throughout much of
the world, which was to persist with such unfortunate results until the outbreak of the Second
World War four years later. In two countries, however, there was no chance for any division
of opinion to show itself: the U.S.S.R. and Nazi Germany. Russian policy was simple and

monolithic; Litvinov had proclaimed Russia's doctrine, "Peace is indivisible." Whatever
weaknesses and drawbacks communist policy may possess, there has nearly always been
about it a facade of logical unity between dogma and practice. The Nazis, of course, saw a
superb opportunity to break up what remained of unity among the Powers that had been
victorious over Germany in the First World War and had sought to make their victory
permanent by the guarantees written into the Versailles Treaty. They had the shrewdness not
to proclaim their satisfaction too loudly; public opinion in Britain and France was therefore
not alert to the hidden dangers in the German attitude, any more than it recognized the hidden
dangers in Russia's expressions of shocked virtue.

In Britain confusion and irresolution were woefully apparent. There was the "realism " —
grossly mistaken, as the naval history of the Second World War was to demonstrate — of old-
fashioned imperialists like the late Lord Lloyd, then president of the Navy League, who
argued that the Royal Navy had been so weakened by the years of disarmament and
economic stringency that it could not risk being brought into the open conflict which severe
and legitimate action against Italy's aggression would be bound to entail. Therefore the
imperialists were opposed to any resolute policy.

Another school of thought argued that to annoy Italy would be -as the phrase went — "to drive
her into the arms of Germany," and saw in this plea reason enough to submit to Mussolini's
highhandedness. There were others who saw a practical political escapeladder in what came
to be known as the Hoare-Laval arrangements.

In Geneva there was a deep and widespread resentment and sense of humiliation at the easy
success which apparently attended this shameless policy of aggression, on condottieri lines,
with a twentieth-century technique in international relations and propaganda.

I saw my friend Mr. Eden and said to him: "If you want international politics to have a
foundation of justice, if you want the League really to be what it is supposed to be, if you
want to give it a chance to grow into a real society of nations, deciding matters of right and
wrong among themselves, then here is an outstanding case which must be tackled. Here there
is no valid excuse of any kind. There is no large Italian minority in Ethiopia deprived of their
independence or their civic and economic rights. Here is a case of open and inexcusable
aggression. And the remedy is in our hands. All we need do is shut the Suez Canal. Or if we
must have sanctions, let them be applied to oil as well, and thus make them a reality and put
some teeth into them. But I still think the best solution is a simple, unanimous resolution by
the League to close the Canal."

Instead we found ourselves passing resolutions in favor of sanctions, which I found silly and
futile. Yet ineffective as we knew them to be, we had to vote in support of them, for if we did
not, we would seem to be condoning Italy's aggression; but the only sanction which would
have achieved anything — the sanction of withholding petrol — was barred. I could foresee
that it was inevitable from that moment on that there would come a bitter day when those of
us who had once held such high hopes for the League would have to go to the Assembly and,
with misery in our hearts, ask for the removal of sanctions. I saw too — and I have no

hesitation in admitting it — that once the moment came for us to submit to the Italian
conquest of Ethiopia, it would be much better for us to swallow our pride and our anger and
do it with a good grace.

Here then was an important phase in the development of the policy and practice of
appeasement. Here was an instance in which appeasement and conciliation of the aggressor
were morally wrong; but once the Great Powers had appeased on this issue — a thoroughly
bad and unjustified issue — there would follow the inevitable consequence that sooner or later
we should have to stomach a new dose of appeasement, either in the matter of Japan in
China, where there were loopholes both historical and juridical, or in the matter of some sort
of German aggression, where there would be the pleas of oppressed minorities, of plebiscites
demanding reunion, and a whole specious fagade of legality and morality.

Was it, however, entirely specious? This was the grave and conscientious doubt which
complicated relations with Germany both for individual nations and for the collective
Assembly of the League — almost as soon as the Versailles Treaty was signed. Earlier in this
chapter I have referred to the inevitable changes in mood and outlook toward Germany which
occurred in opinion forming and influential circles among the victorious Powers, most
notably in Britain and to a lesser extent in the United States and Italy.

Now in general I greatly admire Britain and the British people, but my deepest admiration
and respect I reserve for one abiding characteristic which they possess — the existence in a
substantial and usually influential part of the population of an acutely sensitive conscience,
which prevents their accepting as a national responsibility any unjust or violent act or policy
however advantageous it may seem to the country's material welfare. No doubt in British
history there have been phases of ruthlessness, violence and conquest; but has any healthy
and virile race not passed through such phases in its long national life? It is fundamental to
the British character and the British way of life that this voice of conscience is always heard;
it may at the outset be still and small and belong only to a few, but in the end the majority has
been persuaded by it. The naked code of the harsh struggle for existence, with its assertion
that life is only maintained by the survival of the fittest, must in the British view be
ameliorated by a still higher and nobler instinct — as the great Victorian scientist, Professor T.
H. Huxley, said in a famous speech toward the end of his life. This quality of conscience has
been far more persistently manifested among the British people and their cousins in the
United States than among any other great nation that I know.

Among most of the human race this scrupulous conscience about external events is a personal
and individual matter. In England it has long been a national possession; and this is true also
of the United States. The cause of this phenomenon lies, I believe, in the influence of the
Quakers; always numerically a fairly small minority, they have from the nineteenth century
exerted a moral and spiritual influence out of all relation to their numbers. Through their
connections with other nonconformist groups, this influence, even in the era of Britain's
greatest industrial and commercial expansion at home and overseas, was diffused throughout
the whole population, and the persistence and strength of its effect on British policy and
actions have been remarkable.

During the 1920's the man who voiced these conscientious scruples about Germany most
frequently and forcefully was Lloyd George. In the Press the campaign gathered strength and
influence over the years, and it focused especially on the way in which Germany had been
deprived of her colonies. J. L. Garvin and others made eloquent pleas for the return to
Germany of one or more of the lost colonies. The British mind was never closed to the
practical possibilities, as well as the abstract virtue, of such a step.

Now if in Britain there were these conscientious doubts about the wisdom of maintaining the
status quo which had been imposed by the Peace Treaty, Germany's view of Versailles from
the beginning was that it was a Diktat, which must be circumvented, challenged and finally
overthrown by every means available to the German people. Germans in general believed
neither that they alone had made the war nor that they were in fact defeated. Therefore as
soon as Germany returned to the comity of civilized nations — long before the rise of Hitler —
her attitude on all major questions should have been warning enough. Even the terms of the
Locarno Treaty, for all the fervor and optimism with which they were acclaimed, were
explicit only about the renunciation of war as a means of settling disputes in the west;

German claims vis-a-vis Poland were left expressly undefined.

Not long after Locarno, Lord D'Abemon, the great British Ambassador in Berlin, who with
his beautiful wife had long been among my dearest and closest friends, was staying in Monte
Carlo when Stresemann came there. Lord D 'Abernon asked me to meet Stresemann at a
luncheon at the Hotel Metropole, at which, besides the three of us, the only other person
present was Stresemann's secretary. Stresemann did not beat about the bush. He held that the
postwar period had witnessed the establishment of certain general principles: the freedom of
all European peoples to unite if they so desired and the right to self-determination of
"colonies," racial minorities separated from their mother countries. He said that these
principles had been applied to Jugoslavia, Italy and Czechoslovakia; and now, he argued, the
implication of Lo camo was that they must be extended to Germany by peaceful means.
Locarno had fully and finally rectified the injustice of Germany's annexation of Alsace-
Lorraine in 1871; henceforth Germany had no further claims in the west of Europe.
Stresemann made no threats, and his arguments were based on grounds of justice and fair
play.

"Rectification" was indeed the idea which for years obsessed Germany's statesmen and
diplomats. At Geneva they canvassed it in and out of season. I recall from my own
experience at least one instance of its being pushed forward regardless of the appropriateness
of either time or place: a big official reception, with everyone in full evening dress, a stiffly
formal occasion, when M. Tardieu, then leader of the Lrench delegation to the Assembly,
was, in full public view, relentlessly tackled by his opposite number on the German side.

The failure of the Disarmament Conference was an opportunity which the Germans
exploited. In the thesis that the Versailles Treaty had been intended to be a step toward
general and progressive disarmament among the nations, and that the Allies had broken the
undertakings which they had then given, they found an excuse to rearm.

From 1933 on Hitler merely shouted what his democratic and nonrevolutionary predecessors
had often said before, not in shy whispers, but in ordinary conversational tones. There was
nothing particularly new in the substance of his demands; what was novel was the arrogant,
aggressive and violent way in which he made them. His claims were as vague and as
menacingly undefined as theirs had been, but he also made certain quite specific
pronouncements. The last thing he wanted, he said, was another war. He would shed no more
German blood. The German people had not recovered from the appalling bloodshed from the
First World War. Such claims as he made, he said, were humble and reasonable. As I have
said, in the autumn of 1937 I myself went to Berlin and saw him, not at the suggestion of the
British Foreign Office, but with their full knowledge of what I was doing. By this time he had
a fairly detailed list of demands: that an Austro German Anschluss should be permitted, if a
plebiscite of the Austrian people showed a majority to be in favor of such a union; that the
relations between the Czechs and the German-speaking community in the Sudetenland should
be similar to those between Great Britain and the Irish Free State; and that Germany should
have the right to a colonial empire, if not in the same territories as before, then in their
equivalent elsewhere. He held that Germany had a moral claim to Tanganyika because
African soldiers had fought valiantly on the German side, and therefore German rule must
have been popular with them. He made no threat of going to war on this issue.

Six months later the whole picture had changed sharply. The Nazis had marched into Austria,
and Hitler had been rapturously acclaimed in his native town of Linz and in Vienna. The
Sudeten problem was no longer remote or academic. In the early summer of 1938 a major
crisis occurred; Europe buzzed with rumors of a large-scale German mobilization along the
Czechoslovak frontier; over a tense week end statesmen and officials were anxiously at work
in embassies and foreign ministries. The crisis passed without a decisive flare-up, but it had
indicated the depth and the malignancy of the disease from which Europe was suffering. Mr.
Eden had resigned from the Foreign Office and had been succeeded by Lord Halifax, the
former Viceroy. However, the Prime Minister, Mr. Neville Chamberlain, exercised a vigilant
eye over foreign affairs; he, who — quite justly — had described the League's policy of
sanctions against Italy as "midsummer madness," strove now with energy and sincerity to
effect a practical easement of the difficulties and the dangers which beset Europe. He sought
by finding specific solutions to specific problems to build anew, if necessarily brick by brick,
a new structure of peace. The grievances of the Sudeten Germans were one such specific
problem. Konrad Henlein, the Nazi leader and spokesman in the Sudetenland, visited
England that summer and put his case to leading British statesmen. At Mr. Chamberlain's
request and with the agreement of the Prague Government, Lord Runciman, a leading
member of the Liberal party, an ex-Cabinet Minister of unblemished reputation and a long
record of success as a negotiator on both the political and economic front, headed a small
mission to Czechoslovakia in order to investigate the whole problem of the Sudeten Germans'
future, and if possible to recommend a solution. Apart altogether from any military threat,
Lord Runciman's mission was in no doubt as to what the result of a plebiscite in the
Sudetenland would be.

A strong and influential current of opinion was running in England in favor of a radical but
peaceful, just and permanent settlement of Germany's demands. Among those most closely
concerned in the effort to achieve such a settlement was an old and intimate friend. By a
coincidence two of Britain's outstanding Ambassadors in Berlin have been my dear and
valued friends. I have already referred to Lord D'Abemon, whom I had known well since the
early 1900's. Now the British Ambassador was Sir Nevile Henderson. He and I had first met,
and had struck up a warm and lasting friendship, when he was a comparatively junior official
in the British Embassy in Saint Petersburg in 1912. In Paris a few years later he and I were
both members of the small, well-to-do, predominantly American set of agreeable, literary,
artistic, sporting and cultured folk, whom I have mentioned earlier; and later again we had
been in touch in Egypt. A quarter of a century after our first encounter he had reached the
peak of his career as a diplomat, charged — as his own frank autobiographical record * has
disclosed -with what could have been a uniquely important responsibility. He and I met
several times after he had gone to Berlin. He assured me that sentiment in Carlsbad and
Marienbad was overwhelmingly pro-German, having seen for himself on a visit there; he was
convinced that a fair plebiscite would reveal a large majority in favor of unity with Germany.

* Failure of a Mission, by Sir Nevile Henderson.

Almost all the advice to which the British Cabinet hearkened was on similar lines. The bulk
of the Conservative party supported the Cabinet. So did the City. In the Press the most
powerful and influential support for a just and equitable settlement of Germany's demands —
and of the demands of the people in the Sudeten land themselves — came from The Times.
This great newspaper, in its recently published history of itself, has revealed with remarkable
candor and forthrightness the part which it played in the whole Munich crisis. Contrary to a
belief which has been widely held in Britain and abroad, there was no prompting by the
Government of the attitude which The Times adopted. Geoffrey Dawson, then editor, and
Robin Barrington-Ward, his assistant and eventual successor — both of whom are now dead —
had themselves, by utterly independent processes of reasoning and judgment, come to the
conclusion that it was not only politic but just and fair to seek to secure, if necessary by far-
reaching concessions, a settlement with Germany, and they hoped that such a settlement
would prevent the outbreak of a war.

There has of late been a curious shift of emphasis among those who defend Munich. It is
fashionable to argue (as a correspondence in The Daily Telegraph in the summer of 1953
demonstrated) that Munich was justified, not on moral grounds, but on military grounds, as a
strategic and logistic necessity imposed by Britain's weakness on land and sea and most of all
in the air. This, I think, can be summed up as the "Munich-bought-much-needed-time" school
of thought. This is a post-hoc thesis shaped to fit the pattern of subsequent events. It was not
the argument which was deployed at the time. Then the case for Munich, as I heard it stated
by members of the Government and by other champions of the settlement, and with all
sincerity by myself, was proposed as a moral question and ran as follows: would Great
Britain be justified in going to war to prevent the Germans of Czechoslovakia from declaring
their choice by plebiscite, and in consequence to compel them to remain under Czech rule?

Looking back on it all now, I suppose that I was subconsciously influenced in favor of the
idea of separating the Germans from the Czechs in the regions in which they were in a
majority by my close personal connection with and understanding of the Muslim-Hindu issue
in India, which afforded, on a much larger scale, an almost incredibly exact analogy. Here in
miniature was what was to happen nearly a decade later in India. Konrad Hen lein played at
the time (though history was later to submerge him entirely) the decisive role which, in the
Pakistan-Bharat issue, was Jinnah's.

Whatever the subconscious background to my conscious thought then, I had no doubt where I
stood. At Geoffrey Dawson's invitation I wrote a Times leader-page article in unstinted praise
of the agreement with which Mr. Chamberlain returned — in triumph and to a rapturous
welcome, let it be rememberedfrom his last visit to Germany. I stand before history therefore
as a strong, avowed supporter of Munich. And now, all these years later, after all the violent
and troublous happenings since then, I say without hesitation that I thank God that we did not
go to war in 1938. Apart altogether from any highly debatable question of military
preparedness or the lack of it, if Great Britain had gone to war in 1938, the doubt about the
moral justification of the decision would have remained forever, and doubt would have bred
moral uncertainty about the conduct and the conclusion of the war. In the perspective of
history Britain would be seen to have gone to war, not on a clear-cut, honorable and utterly
unavoidable issue, but in order to maintain the status quo and to prevent a plebiscite by which
a regional racial majority might seek to be united with their brothers by blood, language and
culture.

An easy haze of forgetfulness enfolds many of the details of that period. An important, but
frequently ignored, part of the Munich settlement as it was negotiated by Mr. Chamberlain
was that there should be a plebiscite in doubtful areas in Czechoslovakia where the two races
were mixed. In the subsequent turmoil of events this important provision was forgotten, and
the plebiscite never happened; perhaps it can be argued that its result would anyway have
been a foregone conclusion.

Perhaps, but I merely know now that I, like many others in that autumn of 1938, had the
illusion that we were indeed going to have "peace in our time." Neville Chamberlain, who
had brought this about, was our hero, and for a short time he was adulated as few statesmen
have ever been before or since. It was a tragically brief period. Hitherto Hitler had —
whatever methods he had used to attain his ends — based his claims on the principle of self-
determination as laid down in the peace treaties and in the constitution of the League of
Nations. In the spring of 1939, however, he ripped off the veil of respectability. His forces
entered what remained of Czechoslovakia, and the country was termed a "protectorate" of the
Reich. Baron von Neuradt — a survivor from the pre-Nazi era — was sent to Prague as
Protector to rule a country which had indeed been annexed and totally subjugated.

This destroyed in a single stroke the whole moral basis of Germany's case before history, and
it united in a common resolution many who, in 1937-1938, had held very different views.
There was now no doubt; there were no questionings. It was perfectly obvious to everyone —
even to those who a year before had been the stoutest supporters of Munich — that Hitler's

war in 1939 was a deliberate act of aggression. However, it was not only Hitler's war. The
terrible fact is that it was the German people's war. This time the allocation of blame is
correct. In the vast majority the German people were with Hitler in his attempt either to
impose his "New Order," which was to last for a thousand years or to bring all European
civilization crashing down in min with him in a final Wagnerian climax.

It is true that there were attempts to assassinate Hitler. But the only one that got beyond
vague talk was the coup of July 20, 1944, which was the work of a group of senior Army
officers and which very nearly succeeded. Even this effort — despite the sincere patriotism,
the dignity and the courage under torture of the men involved — was not made until the Nazis'
defeat was a certainty. Not one of the generals raised a finger in 1939, or in 1940 and 1941
when the Axis straddled the world. It needed the imminence of total defeat to convert them. If
a genuine and consistent sense of responsibility had animated them, they would have plotted,
not to avert the consequences of the war in 1944-1945, but to have prevented the war
breaking out in 1939. Someone may say: "A coup by a handful of soldiers would not have
helped in 1939; the German people would have gone to war all the same."

If that is so — if offered all they demanded, the German people deliberately chose war instead
of peace, aggressive conquest instead of shared prosperity — it is the most complete
condemnation of Germany, the most complete justification of every act of retribution
inflicted on her — the cutting off from the East, the loss of territory, the destruction of her
cities.

The argument may be continued a stage further: "What about Danzig? That was a German
city — why wasn't the principle of the plebiscite applied there?"

The answer is that Germany never wanted, never asked for an honest plebiscite in raising the
Danzig issue or in any of her other claims on Poland. When Ribbentrop, Hitler's Foreign
Minister, made his formal statement of those claims, how did he do it? Instead of taking any
of the normal steps by which negotiations are ordinarily initiated, he summoned my friend Sir
Nevile Henderson to witness a scene as tragic as it was futile. Rapidly and harshly, in
German, he read his ultimatum to the Ambassador in the neurotic yet reckless way in which a
criminal tries to arrange an alibi. He turned away abruptly without even handing Henderson
the document to read. It was therefore as a criminal's alibi that Henderson interpreted it. The
German mood in 1939 was a mood of criminal folly and a gambler's pride. To allege now
that this was Hitler's war, the Nazis' war, the generals' war, the war of a handful, is an evasion
of the truth. This was a war of the German people, for which the overwhelming majority must
be held responsible, particularly the governing classes.

Is there a moral? Is there an explanation? I have come to believe this about the Germans: that
in spite of all their great qualities, their ability, their capacity for hard work, their discipline,
their intelligence and their passion for education, they are afflicted with a romantic, self-
immolatory streak in their character which is never satisfied with mere success. Perhaps the
Second World War was fought because other nations forgot about Wagner.

After 1870 Bismarck said again and again, "We are satisfied." Surely after 1938 that is what,
in realistic terms, the German leaders and people should have said. Thinking in those terms,
Neville Chamberlain believed that he had bought peace in our time. Instead, less than a year
later he was saying in a sad, grave voice: "It is the evil things we fight against." Why? Was it
not that Wagnerian, death-desiring streak which drove an allegedly civilized race into the
most blatantly aggressive war ever launched? At least now no one on the Allied side can have
a single twinge of conscience, a single doubt that we were justified in fighting. This was a
righteous war.

My years of work at Geneva did not, I am glad to think, go unrecognized. In 1937 I was
unanimously elected President of the League of Nations. When that year's session concluded
I was asked to continue to hold the Presidency for another year, until just before the opening
of the 1938 session. This was a rare honor and a responsibility, for mine would have been the
duty of summoning a special session and presiding over it, had one been found necessary.

My work in this international field, and its crown and climax in my year as President of the
League, had especially delighted my beloved mother. When I first went to Geneva she was
over eighty, and she followed my work there with unflagging interest. Each year that I went
to India we talked together as fully and as frankly about this as we had, throughout my life,
shared our interests, our joys and our sorrows. For a very long time she retained her health,
all her faculties, her keen zest for life and all its concerns, whether public and political or
family and domestic. When the 1937 session of the Assembly ended, I went to my home in
the south of France, with no reason to believe that my mother's health-she was by then in her
eighty-eighth year — was causing any serious anxiety. Nor indeed was it, for she was
maintaining her accustomed tranquil and happy way of life.

She had seen both my sons, Aly and Sadruddin, the latter of whom, as a little boy, was a
special joy and comfort to her, both when she came to Europe and during a summer which
he and his mother spent with her in the Febanon. He bore, too, the name of my elder brother
who had died in infancy, and this particularly rejoiced my mother's heart. She did not see her
great-grandchildren, Aly's two boys, Karim and Amyn, but she knew all about them and she
chose both their names, the younger bearing that of her brother who died as a young man in
the 1880's. She had, as I have recorded, been present at my first Jubilee, and had been made
especially happy by the congratulatory telegram sent by Ford Wigram, on behalf of King
George V, just before the news of the King's death cut short our celebrations. Eager,
affectionate, pious, alert to every new happening and new interest, my mother in her last
years was someone who radiated a sense of joy and goodness among all who knew her.

It was at the end of 1937 that I had a cable from India saying that she had been taken
seriously ill and bidding me hasten to come to see her. I flew to India at once, in the fastest
aircraft of those times, which took three and a half days to reach Bombay.

All her life my mother had retained the habit of a Turkish bath. In each of our houses in India
we had a regularly equipped Turkish bath, with dry, properly heated alcoves, the correct
water system, and, as its climax, a hot pool and a small and very cold pool. My mother had a

regular bath once a week, with all its traditional accompaniments of Turkish and Persian
massage; she had a manicure and a pedicure, and in the Eastern fashion she had her hair dyed
with henna. Coming from her bath one day in November she had a stroke; she recovered
consciousness but thereafter her mental faculties were impaired and her memory was gone,
except for brief periods of clarity and vision.

She was at our house at Malabar Hill. Her doctor — incidentally a descendant of one of my
grandfather's original followers from Iran who had become a member of the Indian Medical
Service -warned me that I must expect to find a great change in her. I was surprised to find
that her physical health seemed excellent, but the mental breakdown — except for the
moments of lucidity which I have just mentioned — was almost complete. I spent most of my
time with her; and it was a great joy when occasionally she fully recognized me and talked to
me.

All her long life my mother had been animated by one simple, sincere desire: that when the
time came, she should die and be buried on Muslim soil, by which she meant a land ruled by
a free, independent and sovereign Muslim government. To this was knit one more longing:
that in death she should lie beside my father, whom she had dearly and deeply loved, and for
whom her mourning from the moment of his death more than fifty years before had been as
profound, as durable and as touching as Queen Victoria's for her beloved Prince Albert.

As soon as I could, therefore, I made preparations to have my mother taken to Iraq, where an
independent Muslim government ruled, and where my father's body rested at Nejef near
Kerbela. There were obviously considerable difficulties and problems about her journey
thither. Medical advice ruled out air travel, though I have always believed that my mother, in
spite of the various stops that the two-day journey to Baghdad would have involved, would
have stood it better than the sea trip. However, it was by boat that she went to Basra and
thence by train to Baghdad. I had been to Cairo in the meantime, and I flew back to Baghdad
to find her at the house of a cousin of mine, Aga Mustafa Khan, close by the holy shrine of
Kadhamin.

A few minutes after I reached her bedside, her eyes opened, and she recognized me. Then in
the way that all true Muslims would ask, who seek to follow the Prophet's example and attain
a safe and quiet journey from the midst of the living, she achieved peace and happiness and
that final "Companionship on High" for which all yearn. In accordance with Ismaili tradition
I did not accompany her body to its last resting place, but certain nephews and cousins laid
her lovingly beside my father, and they were — as she had long and ardently desired — finally
reunited.

Part Four

A NEW ERA

XIII

The Second World War

THE OUTBREAK of the Second World War meant for me the shattering of the hopes of a
lifetime. The great Palace of the League of Nations at Geneva, which I had opened, was
deserted and shuttered. Its emptiness and its silence were sharply symbolic. However, it was
in Switzerland that I found myself in those late summer and early autumn days of 1939 when
Hitler's armies swept over Poland, and Britain and France, for the second time in a
generation, went to war against an aggressive and conquest-hungry Germany.

Although later in the war, when I was permanently resident in Switzerland, the Swiss
Government — in the difficult and delicate conditions of the time — had to ask me to refrain
from political activity of any kind, that provision was not in force in September, 1939. 1 was
able therefore to address manifestoes to my followers everywhere bidding them give all the
support and help of which they were capable to Britain and the British cause. There was,
however, no occasion for diplomatic or political activity on my part such as I had undertaken
in the First World War. No great Muslim Power was involved, as the Ottoman Empire bad
been involved. There was no Khalif; there was no proclamation of a jehad. My duties and my
responsibilities were no more and no less than those of any other private citizen.

I had at that time a considerable number of horses in training and at stud. In the belligerent
countries racing on any scale was obviously off for the duration and probably for a long time
afterward. However, in 1939 Italy was not a belligerent. It occurred to me that I might be able
to negotiate a deal which would not be unhelpful to the Italian Government and — if I made a
profit, as I hoped to do — would supply me with a considerable sum to invest in British War
Loans. With my wife I went to Florence, and offered to sell all my horses to the Italian
Government. I found that my offer had considerable support among people of standing,
particularly those who wanted Italy to stay out of the war; Ciano himself, I have since
discovered, was in favor of it. However, at the highest level, and on the edge of completion,
the deal was forbidden by Mussolini himself.

To me this was a clear indication of Mussolini's intentions, for in addition to the large sum
which I asked, I imposed two conditions, the money was to be paid immediately, but the
horses were not to be delivered in Italy until after the end of hostilities.

Before I made this approach to the Italian Government, I had offered my stallions and mares
to the British National Stud. In those days, I ought perhaps to point out, my son Aly had no
share in the ownership of my stables, and I was therefore at liberty to do exactly what I liked
without consulting anyone else. My terms in this offer were however very different from
those which I later proposed to the Italian Government. For my whole stable, including
Bahrain, Mahmoud, and every race horse I had, I asked not one tenth of their real value, and
less than a fifth of the price which I was on the verge of getting from the Italian Government.
The Ministry of Agriculture however, for reasons best known to themselves, rejected an offer
which I believe to have been unique and one which would also have been of enormous
benefit to agriculture, one of Britain's most vital industries in peace and in war. To this day I
have never understood this decision. They did not even bother to look in the gift horse's
mouth.

In the winter of 1939-1940 I went to India, spending some months there seeing and staying in
Delhi with the Viceroy, Lord Linlithgow. I gave him an account of the failure of my
negotiations with the Italian Government. In April I went with my wife and my young son to
my villa at Antibes in the south of France, as I had been accustomed to do for years. The
cataclysmic events of May and June, 1940, took me, like so many others, utterly by surprise.
During my years at Geneva I had come to know many French statesmen, and always their
confidence in the French Army's strength was so supreme and so unshakable that when
French resistance collapsed along almost the whole front from the Rhine to the Channel, and
the Nazi motorized divisions swept south and west across France, I was shocked and appalled
beyond belief. When Italy declared war on the Allies, and the French Government,
abandoning Paris as an open city, took refuge in Bordeaux, I saw that we were in peril of
being trapped in a totally vanquished country. With my wife and my son I made my way as
quickly as I could to Switzerland, by almost the last remaining door out of France before the
end. My elder son Aly had taken a commission in a British Yeomanry Regiment and with
official approval had been attached to the French, and he was at this time with their forces in
Syria. My daughter-in-law, with her small boys, was in Cairo.

Neutral Switzerland was a haven, but for several years it was an isolated and solitary haven. I
was barred from political activity; I was cut off from most of my contacts with the outside
world; and these years saw the beginning of my series of grave illnesses. From the British
Consul General in Geneva, Mr. Henry Livingston, and from his colleague in Zurich, I
received a great deal of kindness and help in times that were difficult and trying enough for
us all.

The origins of my illness lay several years back. From about 1935 I had been aware of certain
troublesome internal symptoms, but various doctors whom I consulted did not take a
particularly serious view of them. In Switzerland in 1940 I took the advice of a number of
eminent surgeons; I underwent examination after examination, and the doctors' view grew
graver and graver, with more than a hint that the tumor, which was the cause of the trouble,
might be malignant. Its position was such, however, that they considered it dangerous to
operate. Hemorrhages were an almost daily experience; I lost strength steadily and in
consequence was greatly depressed. Only after the war, when I was able to go to Paris, did
the great French surgeon, Professor Fran§ois de Gaudard d'Allaines, operate on me and,
removing the tumor, discover that it was non malignant. This however did not entirely end
my trouble; of my subsequent bouts of illness I shall have something to say later.

Meanwhile during my enforced stay in Switzerland there was one profoundly important
change in my private life. I have referred before to the differences between the Christian and
the Muslim view of marriage and to the misunderstandings which arise. Whereas those
brought up in the Christian tradition, with its sacramental concept of marriage, find it hard to
understand the practical and contractual basis of the Islamic idea of marriage, for Muslims it
is just as difficult to comprehend the laws in the West which compel the continuance of an
unhappy marriage and insist on the artificial and arranged sin of adultery in order to bring to
an end an association that has become insupportable and to permit both partners to make a
fresh start in life.

Maritally my third wife, Princess Andree, and I drifted apart, although our affection, our
respect and our true friendship for each other were in no way impaired. In these
circumstances by mutual consent we were divorced in a civil court in Geneva in 1943.

Thirteen months later I married my present wife, whom I had first met in Cairo and whom I
had known for many years. I can only say that if a perfectly happy marriage be one in which
there is a genuine and complete union and understanding, on the spiritual, mental and
emotional planes, ours is such.

As a good Muslim I have never asked a Christian to change her religion in order to marry me,
for the Islamic belief is that Christians, Jews — and, according to some tenets, Zoroastrians
and reformed Hindu Unitarians — may marry Muslims and retain their own religion. With no
attempt on my part at influencing her mind, my present wife had already been converted to
Islam while she lived in Cairo. Perhaps each of several motives and impulses played its part
in her conversion: the quiet fervor of Muslim believers in their Friday prayers; the complete
absence of snobbery, prejudice and racial pride that is fundamental to Islam's practice and
preaching; and no doubt the serene, consolatory beauty — a beauty that seems spiritual as well
as physical — of a mosque like that of Sultan Hassan in Cairo.

Our marriage came then at a time when I badly needed my wife's support and understanding.
She has been my strong and gentle help and comforter through all my serious illnesses of
recent years. I have at last been granted the real and wonderful haven of finding in and with
my wife a true union of mind and soul.

My only political activity of any importance in the war years concerned the Allies' entry into
Persia in 1941, with the double intention of opening up a less vulnerable line of
communication with the Soviet Union than the route taken by the Arctic convoys to
Murmansk and Archangel, and of preventing Persia's being used as a base for Axis intrigue
and espionage against the Allies' position in the Middle East. This action, strategically
necessary as it doubtless was, involved the deposition of that remarkable monarch, Reza
Shah, and precipitated a long period of unrest, resentment and frustration in relations between
Persia and the West which only reached (let us hope) its end in the events of August, 1953.

It may be timely, therefore, if I give a brief character sketch of Reza Shah, whom I knew
well, before I describe the steps by which I attempted to ameliorate, on his behalf, the Allies'
action in respect to his country. Reza Shah, although he had had his military education and
training under Russian officers, was of pure Iranian descent, from the north of the country, a
region whose peoples have not mingled their blood with the tribes of the south, nor with the
Turkish tribes that settled in Persia in the epoch of the great migrations. The family name
which he took, Pahlevi, indicates that he fully realized that his origin was pure Aryan Iranian.

I myself, as I have said, am closely related on both sides of my family to the preceding Kajar
dynasty, whose beginnings were Turkish but whose blood, through the generations, had of
course mingled extensively with that of the Iranians whom members of the dynasty married.

Reza Shah Pahlevi was a man of great stature, whose strength in his prime was moral as well
as physical. A cavalry man by training, he rose rapidly — like Nadir Shah before him — by
sheer ability, strength of character and superior intelligence, and became at length Minister of
War under Ahmed Shah, the last Kajar emperor. With Ahmed Shah's encouragement he
became Prime Minister and virtual dictator of Iran. His ambition was to make Iran a truly
independent country, free of all de facto if not de jure suzerainty imposed from without, and
free of constant Russian and British pressure and the clash of interests of these two countries.
From all that I know of him I have long been convinced that he would have had no desire to
seize the throne had Ahmed Shah shown even an ordinary interest in his country and in his
duties as its sovereign.

Ahmed Shah's story was sad and not unfamiliar. He was an extremely intelligent young man,
highly educated, with a wide knowledge of both Eastern and Western culture, and well read
in history, politics and economic theory. But his intellect and his talents were corroded by a
profound and pervasive pessimism. He did not believe that by effort, by intelligence and
application — all qualities which he possessed — he could make his throne and his dynasty
prosperous and stable. An indication of his strange indifference to the normal impulses of life
was that, although he had children, he allowed his brother to remain heir apparent to his
throne. I knew him well, both as a near relative and as a friend. We were on excellent terms
and we met often. It was obvious, however, that he did not care about his crown, or rather he
lacked any belief that he could achieve anything constructive with his destiny or do anything
to improve conditions in his own country. He concentrated on providing for his children and
his mother, and to a certain extent for his brother; he made shrewd investments in the United
States, and carefully and steadily built up his private fortune. Adroit as he was in
administering his personal affairs, he was equally despondent about his duties as Shah.

His end was untimely. He was enormously fat, and he determined to reduce his weight. He
went to extremes, cut his weight down by half, and did his health irreparable harm. He was
still quite a young man when he died in the American Hospital in Paris. But before that he
had lost his throne. Again and again he was urged to go back to Persia; he disregarded every
summons from his government and ignored the anxious advice of friends such as myself, and
flatly refused to resume his duties. In these circumstances Reza Shah Pahlevi was fully
justified, historically and constitutionally, in assuming the crown and the responsibilities
which had been abandoned by the man in whose charge they had been set. And I therefore
was one of the first to send him my homage and my prayers for a felicitous and prosperous
reign.

Reza Shah was an able ruler, a patriot who suffered real torture to see his country perhaps the
most backward of all the world's independent and sovereign nations. He was a shrewd and
courageous modernizer. First, he set out to free Islam, as it was practiced in Iran, from the
many superstitions and from the many semiidolatrous ideas and practices which — contrary to
the true tenets of our faith — had been fostered in Iran by the ecclesiastical lawyers, who thus
kept the people ignorant, their own interests secure, and their power supreme. The Kajar
dynasty, in order to conserve its own position, had allied itself with this bigoted
semipriesthood, and together they had discouraged the younger generation in Persia from

going to Europe and America in order to equip themselves intellectually and technically in all
that the industrial and scientific revolution had brought about. Reza Shah broke away from
this, opened the doors of his country to the study of modem science and sent large numbers
of Persian students to universities in Europe and America. He encouraged the education and
emancipation of women and ended the horrible custom of purdah. He strove to foster national
industries, especially carpet making which he restored to a high standard equal to the best
traditions of the Saffevi period. In fact he was Iran's equivalent of Kemal Ataturk. But the
long, deliberate obscuration, which had been the work of the Kajar dynasty and of their allies,
made his task far more difficult than Ataturk's.

He passionately resented any attempt at interference in the internal affairs of his country by
any foreign Power. No doubt in his dealings with both Britain and Russia he was helped by a
number of factors: that the First World War had gravely weakened them both; that Britain's
imperialist and expansionist ambitions and policies had dwindled almost to the vanishing
point; and that Russia, absorbed in the consolidation of the new regime, in the Five Year Plan
and the vast tasks of reconstruction allied to it, had no desire, for the moment, to resume the
Czarist policy of expansion in Western Asia.

Therefore when the Second World War broke out, Reza Shah sought to keep Persia out of the
conflict to the end, as did the rulers of other countries absorbed in their own internal
problems. However, man proposes, but God disposes.

Until Germany attacked Russia in the summer of 1941, neutrality was not impossible for
Persia. Thereafter however her position became increasingly vulnerable as its strategic
importance grew. Even before the outbreak of war in the Far East and America's fullscale
participation in the conflict, United States aid to the Allies was constantly growing in volume,
and Lend-Lease untapped a vast source of vital military and other supplies, a proportion of
which it was agreed to divert as soon as possible to Russia.

Access to Russia by any European route was, however, impossible. The Germans straddled
every sea and land route. A certain number of ocean convoys were sent by the Arctic route, at
an enormous sacrifice of British and American lives, and the cargo they gave so much to
bring was received by the Russians grudgingly and without a word of thanks. The Chiefs of
Staff were therefore determined to open up a less menaced and less costly road through
Persia.

Reza Shah, proudly jealous of his country's hard-held independence, misled by the hitherto
placatory attitude which he had encountered in both British and Russians and by the apparent
depth and magnitude of Germany's military success, was totally uncooperative about offering
to the Allies the facilities which they asked. In his view they implied the abandonment of
Iranian neutrality.

The Allies at this juncture in the war were extremely hardpressed. They could and did
however assemble a sufficient show of military strength to overpower any Persian chance of
effective re sistance to their demands. A small force, sent from India, entered Persia; and I,
far away in Switzerland, at once appreciated how gravely Reza Shah had jeopardized his own

position. Through His Majesty's Consul General in Geneva, I therefore sought the Foreign
Office's permission to communicate with him. I had some hope that, since our relations had
always been very friendly not only at the time of his accession but consistently thereafter, he
might listen to my advice. In a long telegram I implored him to realize that his throne was in
danger and that if he persisted in this attitude of non-co-operation his own abdication would
be compelled and Iran, instead of entering the war as an honored ally, would be forced in as a
satellite. Alas, I do not know whether my telegram reached him soon enough to give him any
time to reflect. I had had to wait for Foreign Office permission to send it. The pace of events
in this crisis was rapid, and I fear that in all probability my telegram reached him too late, and
his abdication had by then become inevitable. However, there is some consolation in the fact
that — as I have subsequently been told by the man who was then his Court Minister,
wielding great power — the second part of my cable, in which I begged him to come into the
war on the side of the Allies, did have some effect. With the departure of the Shah, the people
of Iran themselves could speak, the dynasty was saved and the present Emperor, Reza Shah's
son, acceded peacefully. Reza Shah was sent into exile, first to Mauritius and thence to
Johannesburg, where very soon afterward he died — doubtless of a broken heart.

The war years passed. Facilities for communication between Switzerland and the outside
world were extremely restricted for a long time. I was able to send a rare telegram by
courtesy of the Ambassador on great occasions, such as the substitute Derby, for example.
Private telegrams to England took a fortnight or longer, and were often never received at all. I
managed to hear that two of my horses had finished second and third in the Derby; and I also
got the news that Tehran, which my son Aly had leased to me, was second in the 1944 Derby.
Later in 1944, with the liberation of the greater part of France, news came through much
more easily, and I heard at once of Tehran's victory in the St. Leger. Throughout the war
these interests of mine had been in efficient hands; the father of my present agent, Mr. Nesbit
Waddington, looked after my stud, and all my racing interests were supervised by Mr. Frank
Butters in Newmarket. Gradually after the war I resumed my own day-to-day control of my
stud and my race horses in training, and by 1947 the administration of them all was back in
my hands.

Early in 1945 my long seclusion ended. The British Ambassador in Paris, now Lord Norwich,
secured special French police protection for me; and my wife and I — in spite of the fact that
a large part of the countryside was still fairly lawless, with German soldiers at large and
armed bands marauding — got through to Marseilles without mishap. In Marseilles we were
for a time the guests of the U.S. Army and of the commanding officer, General John B.
Ratayo. From Marseilles we made our way in a British military aircraft to Cairo.

Although British G.H.Q. had been established in Cairo for all the Middle East campaigns
from 1940 on and although a vast assemblage of British troops was in and around the city, it
had been scarcely scarred by the war. Its social life as always was diverse, polyglot and
many-sided. At the British Embassy there presided the last of the proconsuls, Lord Killearn,
formerly Sir Miles Lamp son, the man who earlier in his career had been primarily
responsible for the Anglo-Egyptian Treaty of 1936. In and around the big houses, the hotels,
the great new blocks of apartments in Gezira and the Garden City, a busy and exuberant

social life ebbed and flowed. Anglo-Egyptian relations were in a phase of superficial
correctness and amiability, overlying an increasing tension.

In Egyptian Court and political circles I had countless friends and acquaintances, including
many members of the Royal Family. Three at least deserve, in my view, more than passing
mention: KingFarouk, whom I now met for the first time as a grown man; his Prime Minister,
Nahas Pasha, and his Heir Apparent, Prince Mohammed Ali.

Prince Mohammed Ali and I have been friends for fifty-five years. When I first went to
London in 1898, he and I stayed at the same hotel, the old Albemarle in Piccadilly. He dined
at Windsor Castle as Queen Victoria's guest either shortly before or after I had the same
honor. By a curious and delightful coincidence, fifty-five years later, in Queen Elizabeth II's
Coronation Year, he and I, who had been Queen Victoria's guests at dinner, in the same
summer were her young great-great-granddaughter's guests at tea. Across this great stretch of
time Prince Mohammed Ali and I have been firm and fast friends.

His is a fascinating and many-sided personality. A younger brother of the Khedive, he
exerted for long a quiet, soothing but very powerful influence, largely behind the scenes, in
Egyptian life and politics. He never married, since his view is (it has always been said) that
his health has not been robust enough for him to feel justified in founding a family. Yet his
energy and vivacity are as great as his spirit is sensitive and his intellect powerful. All his life
he has been a devout Muslim; he has made the pilgrimage to Mecca; he is steeped in Islamic
culture. Not long ago he wrote a series of pamphlets on Islam, its meaning and its spiritual
message for mankind, many copies of which he asked me to circulate in Europe. He speaks
several languages, ranging from Arabic and Turkish, through English, French and German
and one or two more. His detailed historical knowledge of Egypt, whether in the time of the
Mamelukes or in the era of his own great-grandfather, the conqueror Mohammed Ali, is truly
phenomenal. His friends and admirers are legion, not only among his fellow countrymen and
co-religionists but in Egypt's numerous foreign colonies and minority communities — British,
French, Jews and Greeks and Copts. Outside Egypt he has earned respect throughout the
Muslim East, in Europe and in the United States. All his life he has been a great admirer of
Britain and of the British character and way of life, and a staunch supporter of AngloEgyptian
friendship and understanding through many vicissitudes and disappointments. With the end
of the monarchy and the establishment of the new regime in Egypt, he went into voluntary
exile, without bitterness or resentment, wishing Egypt and her people un der their new rulers
continued and increasing prosperity, but feeling that he himself — being far advanced in years
— lacked the strength to contribute his share. His palace, his famed and beautiful botanical
gardens and his princely collection of objets d'art he has left in trust, to become after his
death a national museum. Now in a green and tranquil old age he spends his summers in
Switzerland and his winters on the French or the Italian Riviera. Long may he enjoy a
peaceful retirement.

Nahas Pasha I first met when Egypt entered the League of Nations; he came to Geneva and I,
as India's representative, entertained him. Much of his long-established success as a politician
was due to his powers of oratory, to the spell of authority which he could exert over the

masses of his fellow countrymen; these qualities however are scarcely visible when you first
encounter him. By an odd irony, while he is likely to be remembered in history as a statesman
who came into serious conflict with the sovereign whom he served, he is in fact an out-and-
out monarchist. Madame Nahas has told me of the depth of the devotion which her husband
felt for King Farouk, and with that devotion a strong conviction that the King would be best
served by being constantly reminded of the limitations which hedged his power as a
constitutional monarch. Now this is without doubt one of the legitimate duties of a Minister;
but even in Britain — as Mr. Gladstone found in his long but severely formal association with
Queen Victoria — an adviser who is forever telling a monarch what he or she must not do is
not likely to be as popular with his sovereign as those who do not take quite so rigid or
comfortless a view of their responsibilities. In Nahas Pasha this was not merely a superficial
trait, but a fundamental principle on which he acted resolutely and without deviation. I myself
have heard him say more than once: "Le roi regne, mais il ne gouverne pas."

Doubtless to a young and energetic sovereign like King Farouk it must have been irksome to
have to accept advice so frequently. The King extended to his Prime Minister all the
accustomed courtesies -I have often, for example, seen the two of them sitting side by side in
the Royal box at the opera — but always one felt that behind the polite formalities there was a
gulf which could not be bridged, with the King on his side nourishing a deep but unspoken
resentment, and Nahas Pasha on his, a regret that his loyalty and his devotion were not
appreciated.

And King Farouk himself? To me as to many others there will always, I think, be something
enigmatic in this sad yet remarkable man's character. There are many baffling contradictions
about him; yet back of them all there is great charm and a genuine and compelling simplicity.
His father died when he was still a boy. His mother went abroad almost immediately and the
young Farouk was deprived of the influence and the love of both parents. He was sent to
England to be educated; yet he lived to all intents and purposes a prisoner in a vast country
house, forbidden to go out and about and mingle freely with the people among whom he
lived, under orders given by his father in the jealous fear that the boy might not grow up
along the lines which he had laid down. He had no proper schooling, never went to a
university, and spent only a few months attending the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich.
There can, however, be no doubt as to his natural abilities. Like his uncle, Prince Mohammed
Ali, he is an excellent and versatile linguist. But he has, I think, always felt hampered by the
lack of the education which both his station and his talents merited. This developed in him an
inferiority complex when he constantly found himself, as he was bound to do, in the company
of highly educated as well as accomplished men of all nationalities; in compensation
therefore he turned to a small coterie of inferior and ill-educated flatterers. Loveless in
childhood and solitary, he grew almost morbidly afraid to be alone or in the dark or with time
on his hands.

In this unfortunate background, I believe, lie the real reasons for the habits which have earned
him criticism at home and notoriety abroad, for the gambling that has been so harshly
reprobated and for the long, aimless hours wasted in seeking distraction in cabarets and night
clubs. That they were wasted it is, alas, impossible to deny. Their sad and purposeless vacuity

can be explained, if not excused, by his lack of discipline in childhood, and by the fact that
nobody bothered to teach him that a man's chief capital is time, and that if he wastes time, he
wastes his greatest asset which can never be recouped.

Against his defects I prefer to set his good qualities: his piety; as a good Muslim his aversion
to alcohol (and this in spite of all that hostile critics have said of him); his courtesy and
kindness especially to the poor, to humble fellahin and servants; and his patriotism and his
pride in his country. This last I know to be a major trait in his personality. He is an Egyptian
from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, resenting hotly any suggestion, from any
source, that Egypt and the Egyptians are or ever have been inferior to any country or people
in the world; longing to recapture his nation's greatness at the time of Mohammed Ali and
Ibrahim Pasha; and intensely proud of the farsighted ideals and achievements of his
grandfather, the Khedive Ismail.

Each of us, it is said, is composed of many diverse and conflicting elements; seldom in one
human being has the mingling been more complex and more contradictory than in this ill-
starred yet amiable and talented King. Until late in his reign, when the worst of the damage
had already been done, the uncertainties about the possibilities of the succession created in
and around his Court an unhealthy atmosphere of stealthiness, intrigue and suspicion. His
father occupied a throne left vacant because his cousin, the Khedive Abbas Hilmi, had been
barred from it and because the other obvious claimant, the Sultan Hosein's eldest son, was not
considered suitable by the Protecting Powers. He himself was an only son; until his second
marriage, he had no son. There was a guarded uneasiness about the safety of his person,
which in its way was just as insidious as direct and open fear of assassination.

His contests with his Ministers were protracted and stubborn. He himself believed, as his
father had done before him, that Egypt's prime need was for firm and authoritative rule and
guidance from the King. The Wafd, by far the biggest and most influential political party,
strongly nationalist in sentiment but representative of big vested capitalist and industrialist
interests, wanted to make him a rubber-stamp sovereign. They came into conflict again and
again on numerous issues. There grew up as the King's instrument, or instruments, a group of
politicians who looked to the King for their power and their promotion. At the times when the
King and the Wafd could not get along together, it was one or another from this group, the
King's Free Political party — as it was known — who would be called in to form a government
which would last until the next major crises. In the Army too, it was said, the King used the
same tactics, giving his favorites promotion, and thus incurring the unforgiving resentment of
the officer class.

The Wafd's last sweeping electoral victory brought Nahas and his friends back into office,
when the last possible permutation of politicians had been shuffled together against them and
had failed. The King was deeply discouraged and took refuge in a sad and shoulder-
shrugging pessimism. I met him on his last visit to Europe before his abdication, and I was
immediately aware of a great change in him. He was enveloped in a mood of depressed
fatalism, an atmosphere of "I cannot do what I wish — very well, let them do what they
want," which in the long mn was bound to contribute to his defeat and downfall. He had tried

in his own way to help his people and improve their lot, and now he felt that he had failed. I
was strongly reminded of Ahmed Shah, the last of the Kajar dynasty in Iran. King Farouk,
like Ahmed Shah, had embraced a profound and defeatist resignation and had lost faith in his
power to fulfill his duties and serve his people. Like the House of Kajar, the dynasty
established by Mohammed Ali fell; and in both countries the power passed, not to the
politicians, but to the military.

There is a forlorn and pitiable sadness about King Farouk now. Unlike his uncle and former
heir, Prince Mohammed Ali, he must in the course of nature face a long life. What are to be
his occupations? Where and how will he be able to build for himself a new existence in
which he can find some self-respect and some usefulness to his fellow men? At present it is
most distressing to see him on his course from European city to European city, rootless and
without purpose; and the distress is sharpened by the knowledge that he had it in him — if he
had had a proper education and proper guidance in his youth — to be a good and patriotic,
perhaps a great, King of Egypt.

The sixtieth anniversary of my inheriting my Imamat and ascending the gadi fell in 1945. But
in the troubled conditions at the end of the Second World War it was neither possible nor
suitable to arrange any elaborate celebrations of my Diamond Jubilee. We decided to have
two ceremonies: one, including the weighing against diamonds, in Bombay in March, 1946,
and another five months later, in Dar-es-Salaam, using the same diamonds.

When the time came, world conditions were only just beginning to improve and travel
becoming a little less difficult than it had been in the last months of the war. However, a
magnificently representative assemblage of my followers gathered for a wonderful and — to
me at least — quite unforgettable occasion. There were Ismailis present from all over the Near
and Middle East; from Central Asia and China; from Syria and Egypt; and from Burma and
Malaya, as well as thousands of my Indian followers. Many of the Ruling Princes of India
honored me with their presence, as did senior British officials in this stormy twilight of the
Raj. Telegrams and letters of congratulation showered in on me from all over the Islamic
world, from the heads of all the independent Muslim nations, and from the Viceroy. I was a
proud and happy man to be thus reunited with those for whom across the years my affection
and my responsibility have been so deep and so constant.

I hope and believe that this ceremony, in its timing and setting, was in itself a completely
effective refutation of a mischievous and trouble-making but minor story which a handful of
evil people have recently put in circulation. Some busybodies have ferreted out the fact that
in the 1930's I approached the Government of India and suggested that I might be given a
territorial state and join the company of Ruling Princes. From the refusal of this request they
have drawn the quite erroneous and absurd conclusion that I was offended, and that in
resentment I abandoned all the principles and ideals which I had cherished throughout my
life. Nothing could be further from the truth. This is what really happened: it had long been
felt among the Ismaili community that it would be desirable to possess a national home — not
a big, powerful state, but something on the lines of Tangier or the Vatican — a scrap of earth
of their own which all Ismailis, all over the world, could call theirs in perpetuity where they

could practice all their customs, establish their own laws, and (on the material side) build up
their own financial center, with its own banks, investment trusts, insurance schemes and
welfare and provident arrangements. The idea of a territorial state made no particular appeal
to me, but in view of the strength of Ismaili sentiment on the matter I made my approach to
the Government of India. For reasons which I am sure were perfectly just and fair, the
Government of India could not see their way to granting our request. The idea that they
disapproved of me for having made it, or that I was hurt and disappointed by their refusal, is
fantastic.

So far as I was concerned, the practical proof surely lay in the support, financial as well as in
every other way open to me, that I gave to Britain's war effort from 1939 on; every penny that
I could save or raise in London was invested in various war loans; and I know that neither the
Bank of England nor the Treasury was unaware of the extent of such help as I was able to
give.

So far as Britain and the British authorities in India were concerned, their help, their kindness
and their consideration at the time of my Diamond Jubilee were unstinted. I am certain that
we could never have held the celebrations at all if it had not been for the assistance and
interest of Sir Stafford Cripps, then Chancellor of the Exchequer. All the authorities from the
Chancellor down gave us every possible facility for the transport of the diamonds —
accompanied as it had to be with vigilant security precautions — first to India and then from
India to Africa. The Viceroy's personal message of congratulation was notable among the
hundreds that I received, and it was exactly the same story a few months later in East Africa.
There the weighing ceremony was honored by the presence of the Resident of Zanzibar, the
Governors of Tanganyika, Kenya and Uganda, and no less important a person than the
Secretary of State for the Colonies, Mr. Creech-Jones himself; and the whole time that I was
in Africa I was most hospitably and graciously received and entertained by the Governors and
by all senior British officials with whom I came in contact. I trust that this disposes of a false
canard.

To the celebrations in India there was an extremely serious side. An amount equal to the
value of the diamonds — more than half a million pounds — had been collected and was
offered to me as an unconditional gift. I wanted this enormous amount to be used for the
welfare of the Ismaili community throughout what was then undivided India. The specific
scheme which I had in mind was a trust, along the lines which Ismailis have built up in
Africa, of which I have already given some account, which is in essence not unlike the
Friendly Societies that have made so valuable a contribution to British life. I hold that for a
trading and agricultural community such as the great majority of Ismailis are an organization
of this character, combining welfare with prudent financial advice, assistance, loans,
mortgages and so forth, is much more important and much more suitable than an ordinary
charity fund.

However, other opinions prevailed in India. Having handed back the money, with my advice
as to its disposal, to the representatives of those who had subscribed it, I did not like to use
my authority as Imam to make my advice mandatory. It was decided to set up a conventional

charitable trust — a decision, I must emphasize, in which I had no share and no responsibility
— and there was the outcome which I had feared and foreseen, for it is not unfamiliar in the
East. Before the trust could get into its stride there was protracted and disastrously costly
litigation between various parties among the Ismallis in Bombay. I still hope, however, that
when the suits are settled, at least half the original sum subscribed will not have been spent
on costs and will be available for charity among the Ismailis.

I myself have sometimes been criticized for not supporting and encouraging ordinary
charities on a large scale — hospitals and dispensaries, schools and scholarships, and the usual
run of charitable institutions and organizations. I am convinced that the Ismaili communities
compose a special case. Many Ismailis are traders and middlemen; others are yeomen
farmers, of the order of society known in Russian history as kulaks. Theirs is an intensely
individualist outlook, acquired and fostered over many centuries. Welfare imposed from
without is not in the pattern of their society. I am convinced that their first need is to learn to
co-operate in their thrift and self-help, to extend what they practice in their families and as
individuals to the community as a whole. This will not be achieved by the ordinary so-called
charitable and welfare systems that are part of the fabric of existence in many European
countries. Co-operation in banking and commerce, in the raising and lending of money, in
building and in farming is, I sincerely believe, their path toward economic, social and cultural
uplift, toward that better life for themselves and for their children which their talents and their
virtues can secure.

The foundations have been well and truly laid in British East Africa and in Madagascar, and
it is my earnest hope that by 1900 at least we shall have reached fruition in what I may call
my worldly and material effort on behalf of my followers. In Egypt and Syria, in Pakistan, in
India, Malaya and Portuguese East Africa the task will be more difficult. I am still at it
however, and my Platinum Jubilee — to be celebrated in 1954- 1955-offers, in my opinion, a
superb opportunity to repeat in these areas the efforts which we have so successfully
inaugurated in British East Africa.

India in 1946 demonstrated every symptom — in a critical and advanced stage — of that
malady whose course it had been possible to foresee from the day of the promulgation of the
MontaguChelmsford reforms almost thirty years earlier.

That sense of spiritual unity and of continuity, which in my youth and long before had
sustained British rule in India and had given it its moral fiber and backbone as well as its
outward manifestations of efficiency and thoroughness, was now finally sapped. That almost
schizophrenic contradiction, which from 1917 on had eaten into the solidity and firmness of
Britain's moral and practical position in India, was now exacting its inevitable and final toll.
"Quit India," those two words so often chalked on walls in Calcutta, in Delhi and Bombay
and every other big city, were no longer an agitator's scrawl; they now expressed a desire and
intention. The British were going from India. Now the chief problem was the rate of
departure — fast or slow. The only questions were when and how. Only a handful of
Englishmen — well under two thousand in all -were now left in the Indian Civil Service; but
power was still concentrated in their hands; and so long as they were responsible, not to the

people of India, but to the Parliament and people of the United Kingdom, India was not free
and self-governing.

The Second World War affected India far more closely and far more profoundly than its
predecessor. The whole of Southeast Asia, including Burma, fell to Japanese conquest in the
first six months of 1942; the tide of invasion lapped at India's borders; and Japanese bombers
appeared — with remarkably little effect — over Calcutta. India raised and sent into battle, on
the Allied side, forces numbering some two million, the largest volunteer army in history.

The curious and false British theory about the martial and nonmartial races of India broke
down utterly, and men from many regions in Bengal and the South served gallantly in
combatant units. In the Middle East, in East Africa and in Italy, Indian Divisions were for
years an integral part of the fighting forces of Britain and the Commonwealth. The enormous
value of their contribution to ultimate victory, from the Battle of Keren to Marshal
Kesselring's final withdrawal in northern Italy four years later, is written imperishably into
the military history of the war. Indian officers, holding the King's commission, had
demonstrated again and again their gallantry, their sagacity, their leadership, and their
capacity to exercise high command. In the later phases of the war India was the essential base
for the Southeast Asian campaigns of 1944-1945, under Lord Mountbatten's supreme
command, which drove the Japanese in disastrous retreat down the length of Burma and
which were a major contributory factor in Japan's ultimate defeat.

Yet in the whole conduct and strategy of the war India, as India, had no say at all. Many of
her most distinguished political leaders languished long years in political detention. At the
height of the war, in the spring of 1942, Sir Stafford Cripps headed a British mission to India
to try to work out — against the background of the titanic problems of the time — a feasible
scheme for realizing India's aspirations. The Cripps Mission failed, breaking itself against the
harshest rock of all — the fact that although British and Hindu representatives alike hoped to
preserve the unity of the subcontinent (not least so far as the British were concerned, in the
conditions of 1942, the unity of the Indian Defense Forces), the price of achieving that unity
was one which no Muslim could accept, and Muslim opinion by now had consolidated itself
formidably under the leadership of Mr. M. A. Jinnah, the Quaid-i-Azam. He made it perfectly
clear to Cripps that no constitution for a united India which did not satisfy nearly one hundred
million Muslims would be accepted, and that their opposition to it would be broken only by
killing them; when they said "Death or Freedom," that was what they meant.

After the failure of the Cripps Mission there followed more than three years of political
stalemate. The Bengal famine of 1943 revealed how slender and how fragile were the bases
of India's economy. Lord Linlithgow was succeeded as Viceroy by Field Marshal Lord
Wavell. With the end of the war the political temperature soared swiftly all over India.
Throughout the whole of Asia there was a surging tide of nationalist sentiment, an eager and
insistent desire to throw off the shackles of colonialism. Japan's conquests, however
detestable many of their military and social effects, had achieved one momentous result: they
had demonstrated, to millions all over Southeast Asia, that their European masters were far
from invincible. Millions had seen an Asiatic nation challenge and hold at bay for more than
three years — in a huge area extending from Korea to New Guinea and from the Assam

border to the Central Pacific — the combined might of the United States, Britain and the
Commonwealth, France and Holland. The lesson was too glaring and too emphatic to be
missed.

In India there was no talk now of a five — or ten — year period of transition. The struggle
would be real, immediate and bloody unless self-government were granted, not in the future
and on terms laid down by Britain, but at once and on conditions largely imposed by the
people of India themselves. The most obvious symptom of the depth and magnitude of this
feeling, visible to someone like myself returning after years abroad, was the hostility that had
developed, not simply to Britain's political suzerainty, but to everything British — to the
English language, to English habits and customs, to pipes and whisky-and-soda, to European
suits and collars and ties, so that even Indians who had adopted these habits were in some
areas in real danger. As the saying goes, this brought the situation home to one.

Britain for her part had no longer either the desire or the capacity to hold India against her
will. Vastly weakened by the long strain of the war, her overseas investments expended,
Britain, once the creditor nation of the world, seemed now to be in almost everyone's debt.
Victory had been secured, but at the price of world leadership. At home her people faced a
long period of economic stringency, of shortages, austerity and rationing; and even before the
end of the Far Eastern conflict the Coalition Government, which had led the nation to victory,
had broken up, and the Labor party had — for the first time in its history — attained power,
with a big Parliamentary majority as well as office. Mr. Attlee, the new Prime Minister, had
taken a close interest in India's problems since his membership of the Simon Commission
fifteen or sixteen years earlier. In addition to its program of social and economic reform at
home, the Labor party had pledged itself to end British imperialism overseas wherever it was
able to do so. Independence for India had been one of the main planks in its platform for
years. Where the wartime Coalition Government had failed, its successor, in the flush of
vigorous optimism of its earlier years of office was determined to succeed. A Cabinet
Mission, headed by Lord Pethick-Lawrence, the Secretary of State for India, and Mr. A. V.
Alexander, * the Minister of Defense, set out for Delhi to consult with the Viceroy, the
Commander in Chief and the Indian political leaders on the way in which power should be
transferred.

* Now Lord Alexander of Hillsborough.

The political leaders, with whom ultimately decision and authority rested, were four in
number: on the Congress-Hindu side, Mahatma Gandhi, Mr. Nehru and Sardar Patel; on the
Muslim side, Mr. Jinnah — the Quaid-i-Azam. On their agreement or disagreement, translated
into economic and political facts, depended the future of the subcontinent.

The Quaid-i- Azam's brilliant and epoch-making career, so untimely ended, reached its
summit in these momentous years of 1946 and 1947. Now he belongs to history; and his
memory, I am certain, is imperishable. Of all the statesmen that I have known in my life —
Clemenceau, Lloyd George, Churchill, Curzon, Mussolini, Mahatma Gandhi — Jinnah is the
most remarkable. None of these men in my view outshone him in strength of character, and in

that almost uncanny combination of prescience and resolution which is statecraft. It may be
argued that he was luckier than some — far luckier for example, than Mussolini, who perished
miserably in utter failure and disgrace. But was Jinnah's success all good luck, and was
Mussolini's failure all bad luck? What about the factors of good and bad judgment?

I knew Jinnah for years, from the time he came back from England to Bombay to build up his
legal practice until his death. Mussolini, I met once only; and a memorable occasion it was —
an afternoon in his box at the racecourse in Rome, when he harangued me for the best part of
three hours, in very good English and curiously, for one who was such a "loudspeaker" in
public, in a soft and gentle voice, but never once looking at the races or the people in the
stands or on the course and never allowing me either to watch a race or open my mouth to
argue with him. Yet between these two I detect one important similarity.

Each of them between his youth and his prime traveled from one pole of political opinion to
the other. Mussolini made his pilgrimage from a socialism that was near-communism to the
creation of fascism, from Marx to Nietzsche and Sorel. Jinnah in his earlier phases was the
strongest supporter, among all Muslim political leaders, of Indian nationalism along Congress
lines, with a unified Indian state as its goal; yet, in the final analysis, he was the man
primarily responsible for the partition of the Indian Empire into the separate states of Pakistan
and Bharat. He who had so long cham pioned Indian unity was the man who, in full
accordance with international law, cut every possible link between India's two halves and —
in the teeth of bitter British opposition — divided the Indian Army.

Different in many superficial characteristics, different (above all) in the success which
attended the one and the failure, the other, these two, Mussolini and Jinnah, both apparently
inconsistent in many things, shared one impressive, lifelong quality of consistency. Each had
one guiding light; whatever the policy, whatever the political philosophy underlying it, it
would be successful and it would be morally justified so long as he was at the head of it and
directing it. In neither of them can this be dismissed as mere ambition; each had a profound
and unshakable conviction that he was superior to other men and that if the conduct of affairs
was in his hands, and the last word on all matters his, everything would be all right,
regardless of any abstract theory (or lack of it) behind political action.

This belief was not pretentious conceit; it was not self-glorification or shallow vanity. In each
man its root was an absolute certainty of his own merit, an absolute certainty that, being
endowed with greater wisdom than others, he owed it to his people, indeed to all mankind, to
be free to do what he thought best on others' behalf. Was this not the same sort of supremely
confident faith which guided and upheld the prophets of Israel and reformers like Luther and
Calvin? In our own epoch we have seen at least two other men who were animated by the
same dynamic faith which shakes the nations, and each — one for good and one for terrible
evil — was conscious of a cause outside himself: Hitler who dreamed of a German-imposed
New Order that was to last a thousand years; and Mahatma Gandhi whose vision was of an
India whose society, economy and whole life would be based on certain pacifist, moral
principles, the objective existence of which meant much more to the Mahatma than anything
in himself. Britain's two leaders in the two world wars were also men sustained by an

irresistible and buoyant self-confidence, but both Lloyd George and Churchill were incapable
of transgressing the limitations on the exercise of execu tive authority which are set by
British life and by British civic, parliamentary, ethical and religious traditions and beliefs.

In the view of both Mussolini and Jinnah, opposition was not an opinion to be conciliated by
compromise or negotiation; it was a challenge to be obliterated by their superior strength and
sagacity. Each seemed opportunist, because his self-confidence and his inflexible will made
him believe, at every new turn he took, that he alone was right and supremely right. Neither
bothered to confide in others or to be explicit.

Mussolini traveled the long road from Marxism, not because of doctrinal doubts and
disagreements, but because, in the world of Socialist politicians and theorists in which he
spent his stormy youth as an exile in Lausanne, doctrines and theories were constant
obstacles across the only path of practical achievement which mattered to him — practical
achievement in which Benito Mussolini was the leader. When fascism first emerged as a
political force in Italy, nobody knew what it was, nobody could define its principles or its
program, for it had none. Mussolini simply said: "Let us have a party, let us call it fascist" —
which meant anything or nothing. The party's only principle, its sole duty, was to do what its
leader told it to do. And its leader believed implicitly — and went on believing for a long time
- that everything the party did would be excellent, because everything was conceived and
executed by Mussolini.

Throughout his career Jinnah displayed a similar characteristic. He would admit no superior
to himself in intellect, authority or moral stature. He knew no limitations of theory or
doctrine. The determined and able young barrister, who — against all the omens, without
influence and without inherited wealth — triumphed within a few years despite entrenched
opposition, became an Indian nationalist when he turned to politics. He joined Congress
because he, like the Congress politicians, wanted to liberate India from British colonial and
imperialist domination and because he believed that he himself could do it if he had a free
hand. Yet in association with Congress he was a fish out of water. He worked to be the
champion of Indian liberty, but his ideas of championship differed sharply from those of
Congress' other leaders. He came back and rejoined those to whom he was linked by ties of
race and religion. Nominally in the Muslim League of those days he was one leader among
others, but he was unable to impose his beliefs and his policy, for the general tenor of Muslim
thought ran strongly contrary to the convictions which he had held when he was in the
Congress camp. He had worked hard and energetically for Congress; but, from his point of
view, he was dogged by failure after failure. There was too deep a gulf between his concept
of the duties and responsibilities of a political leader in a free society and those of the people
with whom he worked. The instruments which he took up broke every time in his hands
because it was impossible to reconcile policy as he conceived it with policy hammered out by
compromise and negotiation in the committees and the councils of which he found himself a
member. He met barrier after barrier and his frustration and his dissatisfaction deepened. His
"point of no return" was, of course, the critical Congress meeting in Calcutta in December,
1928, dominated by the Nehrus, father and son. His disillusionment and disappointment there

led him to the conviction that Muslims had no chance of fair and equitable treatment in a
united India.

I here reaffirm that at the Round Table Conferences Jinnah played a loyal and honorable part
as a member of the Muslim delegation. His work there, however, had not shaken his faith in
his own means to his own end. The Muslims' sense of their own political needs and
aspirations had been fortified and developed by years of discussion and negotiation with
British officials and Congress representatives, and the Muslims very rightly followed and
gave their full confidence to Jinnah.

In an era in which "no compromise" was coming to be the mood of something like a hundred
mi llion Muslims, Jinnah, the man who did not know the meaning of the word "compromise,"
was there to seize — not only on his own behalf but on behalf of those whom he was destined
to lead — the chance of a lifetime, the chance perhaps of centuries. He embodied, as no one
else could do, the beliefs and sentiments of the overwhelming majority of Muslims all over
India.

Boldly therefore he came out and said: "We want a Muslim party. We want a unified Muslim
organization, every member of which is ready to lay down his life for the survival of his race,
his faith and his civilization."

But what program this organization should have, what specific and detailed proposals it
should lay before its supporters, how its campaign should be timed and what form it should
take, he would never say. What he intended, though he never said so publicly, was that all
these matters be reserved for his own decision when the time came — or rather, when he
thought the time came.

The Muslim League, as it emerged under Jinnah's leadership, was an organization whose
members were pledged to instant resistance — to the point of death — if Indian independence
came about without full and proper safeguards for Muslim individuality or unity, or without
due regard for all the differences between Islamic culture, society, faith and civilization and
their Hindu counterparts.

Jinnah gave always the same order to his Muslim followers: "Organize yourselves on the
lines I have laid down. Follow me, be ready — if need be — to die at the supreme moment.
And I will tell you when the time comes."

A few intellectuals who could not sustain this unwavering faith in Jinnah fell away, and their
criticisms of him were a reiteration of the cry, "What, how, where and when?"

I myself am convinced that even as late as 1946 Jinnah had no clear and final idea of his goal,
no awareness that he would, within a twelvemonth, be the founder of a new nation, a Muslim
Great Power such as the world had not seen for centuries. Neither he nor anyone else could
have imagined that fate was to put so magnificent, so incredible an opportunity into his hands
as that which occurred in the crucial phases of the negotiations with the British Cabinet
Mission, and gave him the initiative when Lord Mountbatten arrived. Pakistan was born: a
new nation, with the fifth largest population in the world, of whom ninety per cent are

Muslims. And it was the creation of an organization which had only one guiding principle:
"Follow the leader."

Jinnah, as I shall shortly relate, made the right choice at the right moment. How different
might Mussolini's end have been, had he, when the supreme moment came, chosen right
instead of wrong. For him there waited a criminal's end, humiliation and ignominy. Jinnah,
on the other hand, attained immortal fame as the man who, without an army, navy or air
force, created, by a lifetime's faith in himself crystallized into a single bold decision, a great
empire of upwards of a hundred million people.

When I reached India in 1946 these mighty events were in train. Although the principle of
conceding to India immediate and total independence had now won universal acceptance in
Britain, there still remained the great questions: was it to be a united India, with a single
army, navy and air force, or was the subcontinent to be divided, and how complete was the
division to be? There was still a faint hope too that some sort of understanding might yet be
possible between the Muslim League and Congress, or — in terms of personalities — between
the Quaid-i-Azam and the Mahatma. In such an understanding lay, of course, the answers to
the questions which I have just enumerated.

The Chancellor of the Chamber of Princes, my old and dear friend, the Nawab of Bhopal,
went with me to see Mahatma Gandhi, to explore the possibilities of reaching an
understanding. There were also one or two other outstanding problems to discuss: for the
Nawab, the future of the Ruling Princes and their states in a free India; for myself, the
question of the Indian community in South Africa. In our two long conversations with him
(the second of which terminated with the Mahatma's remarks on communism which I have
quoted elsewhere) we came to the conclusion that there was no hope of a settlement between
him and Jinnah. The Mahatma still firmly believed in a uninational India; Jinnah even more
firmly held that there were two nations. I pointed out to the Mahatma that, having accepted
the principle of the separation of Burma from India, he ought really to see that there was no
reason why the Muslim lands of the Northwest and the Northeast should not be similarly
separated, since they — like Burma — had only be come part of a united India as a result of
British conquest, and therefore the idea of their union with the rest of India was artificial and
transient. However, I made no impression on the Mahatma; and I went away, leaving Bhopal
to tackle the problem of the princes.

From Poona I went to New Delhi. I had conversations both with the Viceroy, Lord Wavell,
and the Commander in Chief, Sir Claude Auchinleck. Both were fully convinced of the
justice, as well as the necessity, of conceding Indian independence at once. Both, however,
held firmly to the idea of Indian unity, doubtless because in the end the military facts meant
more to them than the political facts. And the major military fact of 1946, in the vast region
extending from the Persian Gulf to Java and Sumatra, was the existence of the Indian defense
forces, above all of the Indian Army. It happened that both Lord Wavell and General
Auchinleck * had had a great part, as Commanders in Chief in succession to — indeed in
alteration with — each other, in building up the Indian Army, the Royal Indian Navy and the
Indian Air Force to their magnificent and powerful condition at the end of the Second World

War. They were especially aware of the value to Britain and the Commonwealth, to the
Western Allies and to the United Nations, of the continued and unified existence of these
superbly disciplined and well-equipped forces. They appreciated too the dangers that would
loom if the Indian Army were divided. Not merely might the two armies of the successor-
states watch each other across the frontier with jealousy and suspicion, but a perilous
strategic vacuum would be created in a huge and important part of the world's surface. They
endeavored therefore to find some solution which would preserve unimpaired the unity of the
Indian Army. That they failed, and that all who strove with the same end in view failed, is a
measure of the magnitude and resolution of the Muslims' determination, against every
argument however powerful, every obstacle however stubborn, to achieve their just rights and
full political, religious and cultural independence and sovereignty.

* Now Field Marshal.

My Diamond Jubilee celebrations accomplished, I returned to Europe. Physically, however, I
was now in poor shape; my health broke down badly and put me out of action for many
months. The successful operation carried out in Paris by Professor Francois de Gaudard
d'Allaines relieved me of at least one cause of great anxiety; but it was many months before I
was even partially able to resume my ordinary activities.

Meanwhile 1947 was India's year of destiny. The British Cabinet Mission made what turned
out to be Britain's final offer and final proposal for a unified India. It was ingenious and —
had unity on any terms been possible — it was constructive. It was a three-tiered constitution,
combining the highest possible degree of sovereignty in the three great regions into which
British India would have been divided — the Northwest and Northeastern areas predominantly
Hindu — with an extremely limited concentration of essential power at the center, covering
foreign affairs, defense and major communications.

Now Jinnah saw his chance and took it resolutely and unerringly. He announced his
unconditional acceptance of the British scheme. In that one decision, combining as it did
sagacity, shrewdness and unequaled political flair, he justified — I am convinced — my claim
that he was the most remarkable of all the great statesmen that I have known. It put him on a
level with Bismarck.

At this critical juncture when Jinnah stood rocklike, the Congress leaders wavered. With
incredible folly they rejected the British proposals; or rather they put forward dubious and
equivocal alternative suggestions, which so watered down the scheme that it would have lost
its meaning and effectiveness.

However in Britain, as more than once at high moments in her history, there was found
statesmanship of the highest quality to respond to Jinnah's statesmanship. Mr. Attlee had
from the outset closely interested himself in the efforts to achieve a solution of India's
problems. Now with a boldness almost equaling Jinnah's he accepted the basic principles for
which we Muslims had striven so long. The long-ignored yet fundamental difference between
the two Indias was recognized, and the recognition acted upon, quickly and resolutely. It was
decided that India should be partitioned. One swift stroke of the pen, and two different but

great nations were bom. Lord Wavell, who had borne the heat of the day with modesty and
magnanimity, resigned. The brilliant, still youthful, energetic and supremely self-confident
Lord Mountbatten of Burma was appointed to succeed him, with a clear directive to
accomplish, within a strictly limited period of time, the end of British rule and responsibility
in India and the handing over of authority to the two successor states of Pakistan and Bharat.

Lord Mountbatten himself shortened the period of demission and devolution. August 15,

1947, was set as the date for the final and total transference of power. On every senior
official's desk in New Delhi and Simla the calendars stood, in those last months, with the
fateful day wamingly marked. And on that day power was transferred; the two new nations
took over the functions of government, and stood forth as independent, sovereign members of
the Commonwealth.

The birth pangs which accompanied this tremendous process were, some of them, grim and
painful. On these it is not my desire nor my purpose to dwell, nor on some of the consequent
inevitable problems. About one great and far-reaching effect of the British withdrawal I must
however make some comment. Rapid and virtually unconditional as the transference of
power was, it left one major problem, one bad debt for Britain, for Bharat and, in a smaller
degree, for Pakistan. Although the whole subcontinent of India, from the Northwest Frontier
to Cape Comorin, used to be colored red in any ordinary little atlas, by no means was the
whole of this vast area in fact British. Dotted about it were scores and scores of independent
and individual states, governed by hereditary Ruling Princes, ranging in size from big
countries like Kashmir, Hyderabad or Travancore to a few square miles and a township. With
the consolidation of the British Raj their relations with it had been settled by treaty, under
which Britain, as the Paramount Power, guaranteed their independent and autonomous status.
An elaborate and carefully constructed protocol had been worked out between the Princes
and the Raj. In the long and splendid reign of Queen Victoria and in its aftermath in the
opening years of this century, these complex and delicate arrangements had their own
fittingness. In Britain and in India alike, a century ago, society was hierarchic. In the view of
generations of able British administrators in India, the Princely Order corresponded not
inexactly with the higher nobility in Britain. If in Britain the landowning and titled
aristocracy had learned that their privileges and their possessions conferred on them special
duties and responsibilities, a similar lesson and the practice that flowed from it were not
impossible in India. Democracy on a basis of universal suffrage was only beginning to
develop in Britain in those days; in India it was hardly the glimmer of a distant dream. In the
vigorous moral climate of Victorian opinion, who could seem better suited to bear
responsibility than those who were by inheritance endowed with privilege and power? In the
high noon of Victorian liberalism therefore the relations between British officials and
administrators and the Princely Order stood on a comprehensible and healthy foundation, and
had about them much that was good and valuable.

Now that the whole remarkable phenomenon — illogical and anachronistic as it appeared in
its later years — has vanished and is a part of history, it is both agreeable and salutary to recall
some of its best facets, and some of its greater personalities. In my youth I was inevitably

brought into contact with many Ruling Princes, and several of them — over and above those
whose names have occurred from time to time in this narrative — became my lifelong friends.

The most eminent by far was the Maharajah Gaekwar of Baroda. I first met him in my
earliest childhood, when my father was still alive; and during my adolescence I saw him
whenever he came to Bombay. When I reached manhood we formed a friendship which
lasted until his death, and was extended to his remarkable and talented Maharani, who,
happily, is still alive. *

* Vivid portraits of them both, thinly disguised as fiction, are to be found in Louis
Bromfield's novel The Rains Came, of which there was a cinema version some years ago.

He possessed a sturdy independence of character, and the awareness that the honor and the
dignity which he had inherited were not only his own personal right but attributes
indissociable from the race and nation to which he belonged. For him India always came first.
Neither family nor class nor creed mattered more than this simple, spontaneous and all-
embracing loyalty.

A little over forty-five years ago, in the summer of 1908, he and I were the guests of the then
Governor of Bombay, Sir George Clark, in Poona. One night, when everyone else had gone
to bed, the Maharajah and I sat up talking to a very late hour. I have the clearest recollection
of all that he said.

"British rule in India," he said, "will never be ended merely by the struggle of the Indian
people. But world conditions are bound to change so fundamentally that nothing will then be
able to prevent its total disappearance."

Then he added something very striking: "The first thing you'll have to do when the English
are gone is to get rid of all these rubbishy states. I tell you, there'll never be an Indian nation
until this so-called Princely Order disappears. Its disappearance will be the best thing that can
happen to India — the best possible thing. There'll never be an Indian nation so long as there's
a Princely Order. If Lord Dalhousie hadn't taken over half of India, abolishing or diminishing
the sovereignty or territorial authority of scores of principalities, then perhaps something
could have evolved along the lines of the German Empire, with considerable decentralization
and local courts and capitals. But Dalhousie destroyed the possibility of the principalities ever
becoming useful, federal, constitutional monarchies."

In view of what subsequently happened, was my old friend not as farsighted as he was
eloquent?

Another of my good friends among the Princes was the great Maharajah of Kapurthala. His
outstanding quality was his magnanimity. During his minority an uncle of his had been an
active rival claimant to his titles and estates. When he came of age and was fully confirmed in
his inheritance, the Maharajah was reconciled with this formidable opponent, not merely
superficially or formally but with the utmost warmth and sincerity, inviting him frequently to
his capital and entertaining him with as much affection as deference. I recall one cheerful
little anecdote which he told me about himself. In 1893 when he was quite a young man first

visiting Europe, he stayed for a time in Rome. One day King Umberto of Italy called on him,
unannounced. The King's manners were bluff, abrupt and soldierly. As they entered the
Maharajah's sitting room, the King saw a number of photographs of beautiful women
displayed about the room.

The King barked gruffly, "Who are these women?"

"They, sir, are my wives."

The King swung round at him. "Well, I too have got as many women as you. But there's this
difference between us. I don't keep 'em together. I keep 'em in different houses. You keep all
yours in your palace."

Take him all in all, his culture, his impeccable taste, his sane and balanced judgment, his
vigorous and colourful personality, I believe that the Maharajah of Kapurthala was, next to
the Maharajah of Baroda, the outstanding Ruling Prince of my generation. They both, I think,
possessed the political vision to have appreciated the historical reasons for the disappearance
of the Princely Order and to have accepted it without bitterness or rancor. I do not think that
this would have been so easy for two other friends of mine, both in their way admirable,
talented and distinguished men: Ranjitsinhji, the Maharajah of Jamnagar, that magnificent
and lovable sportsman, one of the greatest cricketers of all time, a superb and generous host,
but a man very conscious of his inherited rights and duties; and the Maharajah of Bikaner, a
Rajput of the Rajputs, with a high and burning pride in his ancestry, for whom the passing of
the Princely Order would have been very hard to bear.

But pass it did, in a series of swift and comprehensive decisions. Pakistan — in the immediate
attainment of independence faced with countless momentous decisions — solved this
particular problem swiftly and well. Again it was the Quaid-i- Azam's achievement. He who
had had himself instantly proclaimed Governor General of his new Dominion, was able, with
his almost incredible clarity of vision, his statecraft, and his practical, Bismarckian sense of
"the best possible," to effect on his own initiative an arrangement which was not
unsatisfactory to the Princes and made them a source of strength to Pakistan.

India found the task more complicated and more difficult. Paramountcy was at an end. The
treaties which the Princes had negotiated, first with the East India Company, then with the
Crown, lapsed with the withdrawal of the Paramount Power. Legally the states reverted at
once to being sovereign, independent countries. But they were islands in the surrounding sea
of the enormous new nation of India. Lord Mountbatten, who at the invitation of India's
provisional Government remained as first Governor General during a brief transitional
period, wrestled to bring about a solution, deploying all his tact and persuasiveness. As
Minister of the State Department, Sardar Patel was massively determined that that solution
should be satisfactory to the new India.

The situation which faced the Princes was not without its sadness, but it was inevitable. Few
had governed badly or tyrannously; taxation was usually lighter within their domains than in
neighboring British India; yet their subjects secured, at this lower cost, many of the benefits

for which the taxpayers of British India supplied the revenue. By far the greater majority of
the Princes were amiable, honest, well-intentioned and gentle; but few of them had been
educated on modem lines to face the harsh and complex problems of the contemporary
world. Feudal in their outlook — often in the best sense — but mentally and spiritually
unadapted to the swift transition from the bullock cart to the jet aircraft which is our age, they
were doomed by their estimable qualities as much as by their limitations. Above all, the long
years of paramountcy had rendered them politically irresponsible. They were no more
dependent on their own good behavior and good administration in order to maintain their rule
and their dynasties. In the background stood always the Paramount Power. Extravagant and
wasteful administration at the worst meant a few years of supervision by an official sent
down from Delhi; even scandalous misbehavior entailed only the delinquent Prince's
abdication, on pension, and the immediate succession of his heir. Secure in their privileges,
yet without proper outlets for their abilities and ambitions, they tended to lose the self-
confidence and the capacity required for leadership, and their prestige dwindled in the eyes of
their subjects.

When the moment of crisis came, when they found themselves without the Paramount Power,
without its guarantees and without its limitations, they had — the vast majority of them — no
alternative but to accept the terms which the Indian Union offered them. These on the whole
were not ungenerous, provided each Prince took two important steps: first, authorized the
immediate accession of his State to the Indian Union; and second, handed over political
power. These done, they were assured of a great deal - large, taxfree emoluments; the
retention of their private fortunes, their lands and their palaces, their honors and dignities.
Almost all the Princes accepted with good grace; their States became part of the new India,
and many, big and small alike, were merged to form great new provinces.

The exceptions were few but troublesome. Kashmir is an outstanding special case, in which a
Hindu Prince, the vast proportion of whose subjects were Muslim, made a precipitate act of
accession to India against the very first principles agreed at the time of partition. In
Travancore the Maharajah and his Ministers made a brief stand on their legal and
constitutional rights, but surrendered to pressure by the people of the State themselves. The
Hyderabad issue was far less happily settled. The Nizam had the great good fortune to have
as his adviser a man of the quality of Sir Walter Monckton. However, a fatal combination of
weakness and obstinacy prompted him to refuse the settlement which was proposed by Lord
Mountbatten on terms negotiated by Sir Walter, which would have ensured Hyderabad the
last ounce of advantage in a helpless position. The results of this stubborn folly were
disastrous. India took swift, stern police action, and disaster enveloped all Hyderabad's hopes
and chances.

As the years pass, the immense effects of Britain's withdrawal from India — moral and
spiritual hardly less than directly political — become more and more apparent. The decision
and the act together constitute one of the most remarkable events in modem history. Beside
Britain's voluntary and total transference of sovereignty to the successor states of Pakistan
and Bharat, even Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman's generous action in respect of South

Africa pales into insignificance. Nothing on this scale has ever happened before, yet it is the
culmination and the fulfillment of years of growth and struggle.

Much more remains to be accomplished, especially in the field of relations between Pakistan
and Bharat. In the years since partition relations have inevitably often been strained and
difficult; yet even the severest tension has been kept within bounds, and neither nation —
however much sentiments may have become inflamed — has proceeded to extremes.
Forbearance and reconciliation are not transient moods; they are qualities which have to be
exercised, developed and strengthened.

When partition was imminent the veteran Madrassi statesman, Mr. C. R. Rajagopalachari,
"Rajaji," who was later Governor General of India, made this wise and timely
pronouncement: "If the Muslims really want to go, well, let them go and take all that belongs
to them." There is the temper which ought to inform relations between the two peoples.

It proved impossible to sustain by compulsion an artificial unity. In separation there is a
chance for understanding and magnanimity to grow. They are at first delicate plants; but if
they are fostered carefully and wisely, and if their roots are deep, they will flourish.
Membership of the Commonwealth supplies one intangible but important link between the
peoples of Bharat and Pakistan. It is profoundly to be hoped that there will develop a
neighborly understanding which may in time grow into an alliance. Peace, a shared
prosperity, a shared and steady improvement in the standard of living for millions, are
entirely in the interest of both. In the long run, as I firmly believe, the workings of fate on the
Indian subcontinent will prove to have been beneficial, not evil. A relationship of mutual
respect and good will between the two countries can -and let us hope and pray that it will —
secure many years of happy and peaceful development and progress for millions in a vast and
important region. Then the strivings of so many of us, Muslim, Hindu and British, through
years of arduous toil, through periods of misunderstanding and bitterness, through difficulties
now forgotten and crises long resolved, will in the end have had their abundant justification.

XIV

Postwar Years with Friends and Family

NEVER in my long life — I may say with complete honesty — have I for an instant been
bored. Every day has been so short, every hour so fleeting, every minute so filled with the life
I love that time for me has fled on far too swift a wing. A mind that is occupied, in health or
in sickness, with things outside itself and its own concerns is, I believe, a perpetual source of
true happiness. In ordinary prayer, as we in Islam conceive it, adoration of the beloved fills
up every nook and cranny of the human consciousness; and in the rare, supreme moments of
spiritual ecstasy, the light of Heaven blinds mind and spirit to all other lights and blots out
every other sense and perception.

In recent years, since the end of the Second World War, I have had a great deal of illness —
enough, I suppose, in its content as in its prolongation in time to have depressed me. I have
undergone three major internal operations, two of them with what is ordinarily considered a
fifty-fifty chance of survival. I have been laid low for months with severe heart trouble. Yet I

have never been depressed. I can honestly say that my mind has constantly been occupied
with things outside myself. There has been, for example, a great increase in Ismaili activities
throughout the Islamic world with a swirl of new ideas and new schemes, with which I have
been closely and actively associated. I have read a great deal; I have voyaged in my reading
eagerly into the exciting new realms opened up by scientific discovery. The moment that I
was well enough I went back to my old love — golf; and golf has brought me a renewal and
an extension of the friendships and acquaintances that have meant much to me over the
years. I think in this connection of the golfers whom I have known: the genial, warmhearted,
openhanded Castlerosse, for example, with whom I played often in the years before the war -
an able journalist, a witty and intensely entertaining conversationalist, at all times and on all
occasions a boon companion; or my good and wise old friend, J. H. Taylor, who used
sometimes to travel with me, who was often my guest at my home, whose pupil I was over
many weeks and months — what a wonderful personality his is, with a mind ever open to
delight in life and to curiosity about it — it is good to know that he is in excellent health and
enjoying his well-earned retirement in his home at his native Westward Ho! I shall,
incidentally, always be glad that among the game's professionals I came to know many men
like J. H. Taylor, who were of sterling worth and in every way examples to all who met them.

Travel is another pursuit which, since the end of the Second World War, my wife and I have
resumed with especial zest and joy — all the keener perhaps because it was denied to us in
those dark years. We have returned to familiar places, discovering fresh charm and fresh
beauties in them; and we have found delights hitherto unexplored. In Egypt we have tasted
again the pleasure of Cairo that united, under its bright and limpid sky, so many civilizations,
so many worlds; Luxor with its monuments; Aswan with its especial beauties of air and light;
and Alexandria, the ancient and seductive, where memories of Greek and of Ptolemaic
civilizations mingle in and alongside a big bustling modern Eypto-Levantine city and port. In
India we have rediscovered the infinite beauty and wonder of that immense land — the high
hill station of Darjeeling, for example, with its incredible sunsets and sunrises of rose and
pink over the immense snowclad peaks of the Himalayas. And there is Lahore, whose
mosques and other buildings are often so curiously ignored in favor of Delhi and Agra, even
by those who know a great deal about Moghul and Indo-Saracenic history and art. In Europe,
Rome the majestic and Venice the elegant and sophisticated, though they are both cities that I
have long known and loved, have of late revealed to me new secrets and new enchantments
in light, color and architecture.

All my life I have been a constant theatergoer, and, as I remarked in an earlier chapter, a
devoted lover of the opera. Whenever I can, wherever I am, I go to every good opera within
reach. One ray of light illumined for me the long, dark years of the war when I was confined
in Switzerland and deprived of almost all contact with the outside world: the Municipal
Theater in Zurich had a series of wonderful operatic seasons. Every year Kirsten Flagstad —
the supreme singer among women as Caruso, to my mind, was the supreme singer among
men — came to give her magnificent renderings of her great Wagnerian roles. Some of the
best Italian singers too — Gigli and others — came each year to Zurich. There was an almost
unique pleasure about these memorable seasons: the concentration of talent and genius in one

city, the sensation of this beauty's enduring and surviving in the midst of so much that was
barbarous and horrible, and the contrast of this intellectual and sensuous feast with our
deprivations.

There are friends of mine, old and new, with whom I share this zest for life, this complete
freedom from boredom. There is Elsa Maxwell, the mention of whose name brings a
bubbling sense of happiness. Hers is a friendship, hers is a kindness, which I profoundly
appreciate, for which I am ever grateful. She possesses a true exuberance, a boundless joy in
living; to others she gives perpetual pleasure, and she is happy because she makes them
happy. Elsa Maxwell, the best of friends and the most forgiving to her enemies — if such
there be — stands out as an example and an encouragement to all who believe that social
intercourse should be accepted and appreciated as one of God's good gifts to mankind, and
not as a dreary obligation to be shuffled through when necessity arises.

A couple of friends whom I cannot forbear to mention here -since they have come so much
closer to us since the war — have been my old racing trainer, Frank Butters, and his
delightful, courageous wife. Their annual visit to us in the south of France was something to
which, every autumn, we grew to look forward as one of the chief pleasures of next year's
spring. Now alas, his health has so completely broken down that, though we go on repeating
our annual invitations, Mrs. Butters has to refuse them. Greatly do we miss them both, but
this sadness has not impaired our affection for two of the best human beings we have ever
known.

A new good, kind friend made in the years since the war is Mr. Charles Grey, a member of
the staff of the United States Embassy in Paris, a man of sweet and sunny temperament, gay,
gentle and ever helpful. He is the embodiment of the French saying "tout comprendre, c'est
tout pardonner." No one could be a better companion in joy or sorrow than Charles Grey, for
he is another who realizes that friendship and social life are God-given, and that we ought to
be thankful for them and accept them with joy and gusto and not with resignation or
boredom. Elsa Maxwell, Charles Grey and I share one quality which I sincerely believe to be
enviable: we don't know what boredom is.

During the 1953 Cannes Film Festival I met Miss Olivia de Havilland, the distinguished
actress, a woman of subtle and interesting personality who seems to me to be in her own way,
if I may say so, a seeker after truth. I believe that she is one of those fortunately gifted people
who have an artistic and personal life of their own, full, busy and successful, and who are yet
— in and through this active day-to-day life — sharply and constantly aware of the
fundamental issue and problem of our world today, the enormous power that man has
attained over physical nature contrasted with the still somewhat primitive limitations of his
emotional and spiritual existence.

Another new friend — one of the few truly great individual and creative artists of our time —
who is in his fashion a similar seeker after truth and a pilgrim in search of a reconciling
wisdom amid the contradictions of today is Mr. Charles Chaplin, whom I first came to know
in 1953. He and I have talked long and far into the night — of the dreams that lie near our

hearts, of the puzzles that afflict and sadden us. That Chaplin is a rebel goes without saying —
a rebel against the folly of modern society's impotence in the midst of such overwhelming
material aggregations of power.

I will cite an example of the sort of thing which drives a mind like Chaplin's to distraction. A
recent report of the World Food and Agriculture Organization stated, without equivocation,
that the vast majority of human beings still live far below the hunger line, with consequences
in waste, suffering, reduced productive capacity and shortened expectation of life too
enormous to measure; and, as the report pointed out, at the same time the world's present
ratio of food production (let alone the results of any improvements that would follow better
methods of soil conservation, fertilization and farming) is sufficient to ensure a perfectly
adequate diet for every human being alive if it were properly distributed.

Now if only some of the enormous capital investment all over the world which every year
goes into totally unproductive and potentially violently destructive armaments could be
expended in a single major productive project — let us say water conservation, in building
dams and artificial lakes and providing irrigation schemes for the huge empty and desert
areas of the world — the over-all agricultural output would be vastly and rapidly increased
and the ordinary standard of living be raised thereby. This, which is a topic about which I
have thought a great deal, I drew to Mr. Chaplin's attention, to discover that his views on it
were just the same as mine.

His detractors have in the most unmeasured terms accused Mr. Chaplin of being sympathetic
to communism. I discovered one aspect of communism which horrified him. Communist
propaganda, as we all know, proclaims loudly from time to time Moscow's view that our two
worlds, our two economic and social systems, can live peaceably side by side and maintain a
system of exchange, not only economic but intellectual and cultural. Yet, as Chaplin argued
fiercely, the communists have established the Iron Curtain, which prevents any real free
exchange of ideas between the two worlds, banning utterly as it does a free interchange in
writing and the other arts, unimpeded free and uncontrolled travel by students and tourists,
and all the ordinary ways by which the people of one country or civilization get to know and
comprehend the people of another. The only method, said Chaplin, by which the co-existence
of our two systems would be possible, or could offer a natural and healthy solution of
humanity's troubles and problems, would be to open all frontiers to travelers, with the
minimum of passports, currency control and restrictions and with a free and full interchange
of literature — academic, journalistic and popular as well as technical and scientific — from
one end of the world to another, such as existed in the far-off, happy days before 1914.

Mr. Chaplin is interested in certain psychical and nonphysical phenomena, such as telepathy
and its various derivatives. He quoted to me Einstein's demand that ten scientists should
witness at the same time, and under precisely similar conditions, every case of this kind
submitted before he would consider these manifestations proved. He and I agreed that the
imposition of this kind of test would make all psychical research and experiment impossible,
for these phenomena — and the laws under which they occur — are simply not at the beck and
call of human beings.

I consider it a real privilege and pleasure to have met Mr. Chaplin and his beautiful and
accomplished young wife. She comprehends and fully sympathizes with his ideals, with his
mental and spiritual aspirations and satisfactions, and with the real suffering that the
contradictions of our time cause him. I, who by the grace of God's greatest gift, am myself
blessed with a wife who fully understands the joys and the sorrows of my mind and my spirit,
can well appreciate the happiness which he finds in a domestic life very similar to my own.

For a time a famous and beautiful young star of the screen was my daughter-in-law — Miss
Rita Hayworth, my son Aly's second wife. She is the mother of my granddaughter — whom I
have seen only when she was a new-born baby.

Aly's first marriage — to Mrs. Loel Guinness, a young Englishwoman of beauty, charm, wit
and breeding, bom Joan Yarde-Buller, the daughter of Lord Churston — had had my full and
affectionate approval. They were married in 1936, when Aly was twenty-five; I took my
daughter-in-law, Joan, to my heart; and I had, and still have, a great affection for her. She
bore Aly two fine sons, my grandchildren; these boys are now at school and in due course
they will go to universities in America — the elder, Karim, who shows promise in
mathematics, to M.I.T., we hope, and Amyn, probably to the Harvard Law School.

Their marriage remained perfectly happy until the end of the war. They were both in the
Middle East, first in Egypt and then in Syria; Aly was in the Army and Joan was one of the
many officers' wives who, at that time, were grass widows in Cairo. After the war they
returned to Europe and Joan spent a year or two in East Africa with the children. However —
and to my real sorrow — they drifted apart. Differences developed between them and they
separated.

Not long after this, Aly went to the United States on business and there met Miss Hayworth.
They were seen about a good deal together — and a blaze of sensational publicity enveloped
them, with endless gossip and speculation. They came to see me at Cannes, and I asked them
if they were really devoted to each other; they both said that they were, so I advised them to
get married as soon as possible.

As soon as their respective divorce formalities were completed, they were married — but in
circumstances of clamorous publicity such as we had never before experienced in our family.
My own first wedding in India had been elaborate, yet its festivities were simple and
unostentatious, but this was a very different matter. This was a fantastic, semiroyal, semi-
Hollywood affair; my wife and I played our part in the ceremony, much as we disapproved of
the atmosphere with which it was surrounded.

I thought Miss Hayworth charming and beautiful, but it was not long before I saw, I am
afraid, that they were not a well-assorted couple. My son Aly is an extremely warmhearted
person who loves entertaining, who loves to be surrounded by friends to whom he gives
hospitality with both hands. Miss Hayworth was obviously someone who was emotionally
exhausted with the strain of her work, which had absorbed her almost from childhood, and
she therefore looked upon her marriage as a haven of peace and rest. Certainly for two people

whose ways of life were thus dramatically opposed the collapse of their marriage was
inevitable.

However, I must say that instead of tackling the matter frankly and openly, Miss Hayworth
somehow got it into her head that either Aly or I myself might try to take her daughter away
from her, indeed kidnap the child. Therefore taking the child with her, she ran away from my
son in rather extraordinary circumstances.

Had Miss Hayworth taken a little care and trouble, she could have found out what in fact are
the Ismaili religious laws and the code which governs all my followers and my family in
these matters. Under this code the custody of young children of either sex rests absolutely
with their mother, no matter what the circumstances of the divorce. Unless we were
criminals, therefore, we could not even have contemplated taking the baby, Yasmin, from her
mother. When they are seven, boys pass into their father's custody, girls into their mother's
until puberty when they are free to choose. This code surely offered Miss Hayworth ample
protection.

I was in India and Pakistan when the final crisis in my son's domestic life was developing.
The moment I got back to Cannes -that very same night — Miss Hayworth, without having let
me even see the baby, took her and ran away to Paris and then from Paris back to the United
States. She has since, I understand, come back to Europe; but she has not brought the child to
show her to her father's family.

The day that she was leaving with the child, a busybody in my employ telephoned to tell me
what was happening and to ask what she should do about it. I answered at once that it was no
affair of ours and that Miss Hayworth was fully entitled to take the child wherever she
wished. She could surely have delayed her departure for Paris from Cannes and have let me
see the baby.

Friends of mine and my lawyers have always maintained that I might have made a trust
settlement or taken out an insurance for my small granddaughter's future. Their arguments,
though wellintentioned, are mistaken. They have not realized that under Islamic law the
custody of a female child, until puberty, rests absolutely with her mother. They have also
forgotten that there is no way under Islamic law by which a child can possibly be disinherited
by his or her father. Were my son Aly to die, he is not allowed to will away from his legal
heirs more than one third of his property; two-thirds must go to his heirs, of whom his
daughter Yasmin is one, and he cannot interfere with this provision in any way. Nor does
Muslim law allow a testator to benefit one legal heir at the expense of another. Therefore,
whatever happens to my son Aly, the child Yasmin is bound to get her proper share of any
estate which he leaves. So long as capitalism and any system of private property survive, it is
unlikely that Aly will die penniless; consequently, there is no particular urgency about
making financial provision for his daughter.

A system of dowries and of marriage settlements is, I understand, developing in the United
States, and doubtless when the child is of an age to contemplate marriage, either my son or I

will arrange a reasonable dowry for her, in relation to the circumstances of the man she
marries.

In conclusion, I can only hope that when next Miss Hayworth comes to Europe, she will
bring her small daughter with her so that her father's family can see her and have the pleasure
of making her acquaintance.

People I Have Known

THE PEOPLE whom I have met and known throughout my life stand out in my recollection
more vividly and sharply than the dogmas that I have heard preached, the theories that I have
heard argued, the policies that I have known to be propounded and abandoned. I have
enjoyed the friendship of beautiful and accomplished women, of brilliant and famous men,
who throng the corridors of my memory.

The most beautiful woman whom I ever knew was without doubt Lady D'Abernon —
formerly Lady Helen Vincent — the wife of Britain's great Ambassador in Berlin. The
brilliance of her beauty was marvelous to behold: the radiance of her coloring, the perfection
of her figure, the exquisite modeling of her limbs, the classic quality of her features, and the
vivacity and charm of her expression. I knew her for more than forty years; and when she was
seventy the moment she came into a room, however many attractive or lovely young women
might be assembled there, every eye was for her alone. Nor was her beauty merely physical;
she was utterly unspoiled, simple, selfless, gay, brave and kind.

If Lady D'Abernon was pre-eminent, there were many, many others whose loveliness it is a
joy to recall: Lady Curzon, now Countess Howe; Mme. Letelier, Swedish by origin, and
almost from childhood a leading social figure; Princess Kutusov; the American, Mrs.
Spottiswoode, who took London by storm during the Edwardian era, who married Baron
Eugene de Rothschild, and — alas -died young, still in the pride of her beauty and her charm.

The most brilliant conversationalist of my acquaintance was Augustine Birrell, now — I am
told - an almost legendary figure in an epoch which has largely forgotten the art of
conversation. Oscar Wilde I never met, for his tragic downfall had overwhelmed him before I
first came to Europe. Strangely enough I had one chance of making his acquaintance after he
came out of prison. My friend Lady Ripon was one of those who stood loyally by him after
his disgrace. One day in 1899 I encountered her in the hall of the Ritz in Paris, and she
invited me to dine with her and one or two others in a private room at the Cafe Voisins to
meet Wilde; but unluckily an important previous engagement prevented me from accepting
her invitation.

I have referred to my friend Walter Berry. He was one who could more than hold his own in
any society however brilliant or accomplished. Another of a different epoch and from a
profoundly different background was Dr. Hjalmar Schacht, the German financial wizard, who
every time that I met him held a whole table enthralled.

I have known many women who allied great social and conversational talent to their beauty;
notable among them were Mrs. Edwin Montagu and Lady Diana Duff Cooper (now Lady
Norwich). My friend, Lady Cunard, was unique — the most complete personality that I have
ever encountered. Another figure of legend whom I knew well was the Comtesse de
Chevigny who was, as is well known, the original — or shall I say the chief original? — of
Proust's Duchesse de Guermont. One of the most striking and memorable of the novelist's
descriptions of her is at a great party in, I think, 1900. She looked worried and preoccupied,
and when asked what was the matter, replied, "La Chine m'inquiete." And I reflect that more
than once, in those far-off, seemingly carefree days before the Lirst World War, I met the
Comtesse de Chevigny and saw, across the dinner table, amidst all that brilliance and gaiety,
that same sad and haunted expression. Had I asked her, would she have answered, I wonder,
"L'Allemagne m'inquiete" or "Agadir m'inquiete..."?

Only recently, in the summer of 1953, 1 made the acquaintance of one of the most remarkable
men of our time, an agreeable, shrewd and courtly old gentleman, the Sheikh of Kuweit, who
is the personal embodiment of a truly astonishing romance — the romance of a sudden,
dazzling rise to almost incalculable wealth. Kuweit's oil resources have only lately been
tapped, but they are of tremendous richness. The royalties which the Sheikh derives from
them suffice, at present, to enrich him and his little principality something like fifty million
pounds a year. This sudden flood of wealth has come to what, until recently, was a small,
frugal Arab state (though nominally under British protection it has always preserved its
independence, and therefore its ruler ought to be designated as Sultan, not as Sheikh), whose
population, through many centuries, had pursued their changeless callings as fishermen,
tillers of the soil or nomad shepherds. Suddenly industrial need, with its accompanying
exploitation and expansion, has enveloped them, bringing a swift and total revolution in their
way of life and outlook.

It is particularly fortunate therefore that the Sheikh himself is a man of great wisdom, who
allies an incredibly clear-sighted understanding of what this industrial and technical
revolution means to a profound awareness of his own responsibilities. I especially delighted
in his company because I found a kindred spirit, one whose mind had its full store of Arab
and Islamic history and culture, and a steadfast appreciation of the spiritual unity of the Arab
world which underlies its present divisions and miseries.

There is, I have often thought, a curious resemblance between the Arabia of today and the
Germany of 1830: the many political divisions and subdivisions, minorities far dispersed and
under foreign rule, the jumble of monarchies and republics, and withal the drive of a common
language, a common culture and a common faith — and that common faith being Islam is
sufficiently tolerant to embrace the Christian minority in its midst and admit them to a full
share in Arab traditions, culture and aspirations. How will the Arab world evolve? Who can
tell? But who, at the time of the Congress of Vienna, could have foretold the astonishing
course of German history over the subsequent century?

The core of the Arab world is the high, central plateau of the Arabian Peninsula itself. Here
Islam was bom. Hence its vast tide of expansion poured out in the centuries after the death of

the Prophet, that tide which carried Arab and Muslim culture across enormous area of the
world — to India and China and Southeast Asia, to Byzantium, down the length of Africa, and
deep into Europe, being stemmed only at Roncesvalles. Hence in succeeding centuries has
come every great wave of Arab resurgence. Is the whole drive ended now? Few would dare
say so with confidence. But given the conditions of today, and the domination of the world by
science and technology, the Arab's future greatness must be spiritual and cultural. This is far
more in keeping with Islam whose very meaning is "Peace."

For in Arabia vast and portentous processes of change are at work. After a series of violent
and vigorous campaigns, during the years of the final decline and the Ottoman Empire's
suzerainty over these regions, Ibn Saud consolidated his authority over a large part of the
peninsula. The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia is his creation, and there can be no doubt that His
Majesty King Abdul Aziz was one of the outstanding Arab personalities of recent centuries.
The veteran Ibn Saud has sired a splendid brood of sons, numbering nearly forty, all tall,
handsome, virile men — the modem counterparts of those bearded gallants who swagger
through the pages of the Arabian Nights, causing strong men to tremble and maidens to
swoon. Yet they cannot be dismissed as simple storybook characters; many of Ibn Saud's
sons possess his redoubtable characteristics — whether in glamorous Arab dress or in
European clothes -for they are as much at home in committee rooms, conference halls and the
saloons of luxury hotels in London or in Washington as they are in their father's tents at Nejd.

For to Saudi Arabia the West has lately come, with the same allembracing compulsive vigor
as to Kuweit; the oil resources of the former are believed to be among the richest in the
world. American enterprise is revolutionizing its economic existence. But the enormous
power that this development brings is being used in a most enlightened and skillful manner,
and it makes nonsense of the shallow propagandist allegations about the crushing effects of
"economic imperialism." The United States is creating, in its dealings with Saudi Arabia, a
new and profoundly significant pattern of relationships between so-called "backward" and
"advanced" countries. There is the maximum of economic assistance and support, and
exploitation of natural resources, with a complete absence of political interference. This
outlook expresses itself in personal relations as well; it is a firm rule that if any American
working in Saudi Arabia is discovered to have failed in courtesy toward the poorest Arab, he
is at once sent home and forbidden to come back. There is thus being built up a sense of
confidence, of good will and of mutual respect between the two peoples — and between
individuals — which is of immense value both in itself and as an example to other nations
who, whether under Point Four schemes or the Colombo Plan or any other of these world-
wide arrangements, come into similar contact.

Whenever the state of my health has permitted, I have traveled widely since the end of the
war. I have visited the two new independent nations that have succeeded the Indian Empire
which I knew from my childhood; I have been to Egypt and East Africa, to Iran and to
Burma.

Before the end of British rule in India one of the curious and erroneous opinions widely
canvassed was that Indians lacked the capacity to govern themselves, manage their own

affairs and play their full part in the councils of the world. Recent years have demonstrated
the glaring falsity of this idea. Both countries have been particularly well served by their
statesmen, high officials and diplomats; and their contributions to the work of the
Commonwealth and of the United Nations have been many and valuable.

Bharat — though an assassin's hand struck down Mahatma Gandhi at a time when his country
still badly needed him — has been devotedly served by many brilliant and patriotic men and
women, notably Sardar Patel, Mr. Nehru and his talented sister, Mrs. Pandit. My own
contacts with the new regime in Delhi are close and cordial, and I have been received there
with great kindness and hospitality. We are all constantly aware of the immensely important
part India plays, with increasing sureness and felicity of touch, in international affairs,
seeking to provide a bridge of understanding between the West and a resurgent Asia in a
fashion that is both courageous and sensible.

Pakistan faced at the outset a far harder task than her neighbor. In Delhi, Calcutta, Bombay
and other cities there existed both the traditions of a strong and stable administration and the
facilities -the staff, the buildings and the equipment — to maintain it. In Pakistan, however,
everything, literally everything, had to be built from the very beginning. Typewriters, pens
and paper and file covers hardly existed. Hundreds of miles separated East and West
Pakistan. Neither had, in the ordinary sense, a capital city. Karachi and Dacca doubled and
redoubled their size overnight; everything had to be built from the foundations up, and every
ordinary facility of administration and government had to be established anew.

This vast task was undertaken with extraordinary skill and pertinacity. Pakistan was a going
concern from the outset. Part of the genius of the Quaid-i-Azam was that, like the Prophet
himself, he attracted into his orbit able and devoted people, and Pakistan has been served,
throughout her brief existence, by men and women of the highest moral and intellectual
caliber. They came from the ranks, not only of his previous followers, but of those who had
been severely critical of his policy in earlier days. Their achievements have given the lie to
all the croaking prophets who could foresee nothing but disaster for the young state.

First and foremost, of course, was the Quaid-i-Azam's sister, Miss Fatima Jinnah, who had
been his companion, friend and helper for many years, who presided over his homes in
Fondon and Bombay, and later in his palace in Karachi and his summer home at the hill
station of Ziarat. Miss Jinnah has much of the strength of character of her famous brother,
much of his manner, voice, resolute bearing and appearance. Now, after his death, she is still
prominent in public life, with a large and faithful following; and she acts as a zealous and
vigilant guardian of the moral and political independence of her brother's God-given realm.

Ghulam Mohammed, the present Governor General, universally admired and respected, is a
former industrialist and a learned and devoted student of the history of Islam, its magnificent
rise, its gradual decline and its present hope and chance of rising, phoenixlike, from the ashes
of the past. A former distinguished colleague of mine at the Round Table Conference and the
committees which followed, Zafrullah Khan, is at present Foreign Minister; and he brings to

his herculean responsibilities sagacity, forensic ability and great experience in the field of
international affairs.

There was too the Quaid-i- Azam's faithful and skilled henchman, Liaquat Ali Khan, who was
another tragic victim of the wave of violence and assassination which for some years swept
the East. He is survived by his wife, in her own field of work and interests hardly less able
and certainly no less devoted than her staunch and beloved husband. But Liaquat will long be
missed; for surely if the Quaid had asked for an Abu Bakr, for a Peter, he could not have been
granted a better one than Liaquat Ali Khan, whose qualities were not bright or showy but
whose strength of character was solid, durable and of the utmost fidelity. He proved his worth
in Pakistan's second stem testing. The Quaid's death, so soon after the foundation of Pakistan,
strikingly resembled that of the Prophet himself who was received into the "Companionship-
on-High" very soon after the triumph and consolidation of his temporal conquests. Similarly
the Quaid did not live to preside long over the growth of the mighty child that he had
fathered.

But Liaquat was in every way a worthy successor. Yet he who had been so near to the Quaid
was himself soon to be struck down. Truly it may be said that he gave his soul to God. As life
ebbed from him, his last words were: "No God but God, and Mohammed his messenger."

That is the stamp of a man whose achievement is the Pakistan of today. I think gladly of
others: of Habib Rabimtoola, the brilliant son of a brilliant father, who had, as High
Commissioner in London immediately after the formation of the State, a post of especial
responsibility; of Mr. Isphani who, at the same critical period, represented his young country
in Washington; of the present Prime Minister, formerly a very successful High Commis
sioner in Ottawa, who is the grandson of Nawab Ali Chowdry, a colleague of mine in the
early days of the Muslim League; of Amjid Ali, for many years my honorary secretary who
has rendered great service in the most onerous of charges; and of the other Mohammed Ali, a
brilliant expert on economics and finance.

Most of these men are comparatively young in years, and they come from families with
industrial and commercial rather than political or official traditions. Their zeal, their
efficiency and their success in their new tasks have all been notable. Is not the explanation
that they have been sustained by their patriotism, by their devotion to a great cause, and,
above all, by their Muslim faith and their consciousness of immediate and permanent
responsibility to the Divine?

My most recent, postwar visit to Burma was a particularly happy experience. As I have
pointed out earlier, I took the step of advising my followers in Burma, a good many years
ago, to identify themselves in every possible way with the outlook, customs, aspirations, and
way of life of the people among whom they dwelt -to give up their Indo-Saracenic names, for
example, and to take Burman names; to adopt Burman dress, habits and clothing, and apart
from their religion and its accompanying practices, to assimilate themselves as much as
possible in the country of their adoption. Now that the people of Burma have regained their
independence, this advice of mine, and the full and faithful way in which my followers have

carried it out, have borne fruit. My wife and I were received in Burma by the President and
the Prime Minister and many other leading and notable personalities with the utmost kindness
and friendliness. Burma is a beautiful country; her people unite a deep piety (in few other
countries does the Prime Minister have to be begged not to retire from office and — as he
longs to do — assume the saffron robe and the begging bowl of the mendicant monk) to
gaiety, gentleness and intensely hospitable generosity.

They were especially happy days that we spent in Rangoon. The climax of the hospitality
which we received was reached, perhaps, on the night that we were bidden to dine, in our
own apartments, on Burman food specially prepared for us in the President's palace. At eight
o'clock sharp two aides de camp and several servants arrived with an array which marshaled
in all something like thirty courses. The Burmans are by no means vegetarians nor are they
particularly ascetic in their diet. Most of the dishes were very, very rich and very, very
nourishing. When they were laid out, we asked the aides de camp to join us. After a few
courses we announced that we had finished.

"Oh, no," said the aides de camp, smiling in the friendliest fashion. "We have been specially
sent to see that you try every dish."

Such hospitality was irresistible. On we battled as bravely as we could, on and on to the
puddings, the bonbons and the sugared fruit. After all, I had lived in Victorian London and
had attended the long, rich and stately banquets of that era, but never in all my life have I
known a meal which in variety and subtlety of taste and flavor could rival that dinner so
kindly given to us by the President of Burma.

Iran, the home of my ancestors for many centuries, I first visited in February, 1951, to be
present at the wedding of His Imperial Majesty the Shah. Although the circumstances and the
duties of an active and busy life had, by chance, prevented me from going to Iran until I was
well past seventy, I have always taken great pride in my Iranian origin. Both my father and
my mother, it will be recalled, were grandchildren of Fateh Ali Shah, who was a pure Kajar
of Turkish descent, and the outlook and way of life of the home in which I was brought up
was almost entirely Iranian.

Therefore to go to Iran was in a real sense a homecoming. It was made especially precious by
the graciousness and the kindness we received as personal guests of the Emperor, and in the
beautiful palace which Her Imperial Highness, Princess Shams, most graciously put at our
disposal.

In Mahalat, which was long my ancestors' home, I was received by thousands of Ismailis
from all over Persia. It was good to see that their womenfolk had all given up the chaddur, the
Persian equivalent of the Indian purdah. Isfahan, which we also visited, is more old-
fashioned. There we saw the chaddur frequently worn, and we encountered a good number of
men wearing the long, high-buttoned coat that was customary under the rule of the Kajar
dynasty. In Tehran the effects of Reza Shah's policy of modernization are numerous and
visible. Iranians in general do not resemble any neighboring Asiatic people; in ordinary
appearance many of them might be mistaken for southern Caucasians. And nowadays in the

cities their adaptation of European — or allegedly European -dress and a somewhat forlorn
appearance of poverty give them the down-at-heel look that one has seen in moving pictures
about Russia.

Some of these appearances are, I think, misleading — especially the appearance of poverty.
Weight for weight, man for man, the masses of Iran are certainly better off than the masses of
India or China; and although their standard of living is obviously not comparable with that of
Western European countries or America, they are in matters particularly of diet better off
than the people of many Asiatic nations, living distinctly above, not below, the margin of
subsistence.

One fact is clear above the welter of Iran's problems and difficulties: if the present Emperor
now has, after all the stirring vicissitudes through which he has lately passed, a free hand and
is able to choose his own ministers and advisers and is not hampered by conservatism on the
one hand and individualism on the other, Iran will be able greatly to raise her economic and
social standards and to support in far better conditions a considerably increased population.

I must not close this brief record of my recent doings and experiences without some reference
to an incident a good deal less agreeable than most that have lately come my way. One
morning in August, 1949, my wife and I left our villa near Cannes to drive to the Nice airport
to catch a plane to Deauville. Our heavy town luggage had gone on by road in our own two
cars with our servants. My wife and I and her personal maid, Mile. Frieda Meyer, were
therefore in a car hired from a local garage. I was beside the driver, my wife and her maid in
back. About two hundred yards from the gate of our villa the mountain road takes a sharp
turn and another small road comes in at the side.

As we reached the intersection we saw another car drawn up across it, so that we could
neither pass nor take the by-road. Three men, masked and hooded and extremely heavily
armed — they had no fewer than ten guns among the three of them — jumped out and closed
in on us. One of them slashed one of our back tires. The muzzles of their guns thrust into the
car, one a few inches from my wife, another close to my chest. Fear, as one ordinarily
understands it, did not bother any of us. I remember that I saw the hands of the man who was
covering me trembling violently, and I thought with complete detachment: "That gun is quite
likely to go off." My wife's maid, as she has often told me since, thought -again quite without
agitation — "When is he going to kill the Prince?" And my wife at her side had no sensation
of alarm or fear at all.

I said, in my normal tone of voice, "We won't resist; we'll give you what you want."

One of them snatched my wife's jewel box which she held in her lap. As they backed away
toward their car he said, "Please be kind. Let us get away."

Then when they were just about to jump back into their car, I found my voice and my sense
of humor.

Hi, come back!" I shouted. "You've forgotten your pourboire!

One of them ran back and I gave him the handful of francs which I had in my pocket.

"Voila le pourboire," said I.

"Merci, merci," he said again and again, as he ran back to the other car.

We went home and telephoned the police at Lloyd's. Lloyd's dealt with our claim completely
and generously. After almost four years had passed, six men were brought to trial in 1953,
and three were convicted and sentenced. And that, I think, is all that need be said about an
episode as unpleasant as, in my long experience, it was unprecedented.

XVI

Toward the Future

ALL MY LIFE I have looked forward. Large-scale prophecy, however, is as dangerous as it
is easy, and true prophetic vision is rare indeed. It is a rarity more than ever marked in an
epoch such as ours, in which science has placed in our reach material and natural powers
undreamed of fifty short years ago. But since the human mind and the human imagination are
as yet by no means fully equipped to master the immense forces which human ingenuity has
discovered and unleashed, it is not too difficult to foresee at least some of the political and
social reactions of nations as well as individuals to this enormous scientific and technical
revolution and all its accompanying phenomena.

India, the country of my birth and upbringing, has been for centuries a land of extreme
poverty, misery and want, where millions are bom, live and work and die at a level far below
the margin of subsistence. A tropical climate, aeons of soil erosion, and primitive and
unskilled methods of agriculture have all taken their toll of suffering, patient, gentle but
ignorant mankind. The Indian peasant has survived and multiplied but in face of the most
ferocious and formidable handicaps. Many years ago, in my first book, India in Transition, I
gave this account of the day-to-day life of the ordinary Indian peasant under British rule.

A typical rural scene on an average day in an average year is essentially the same now as it
was half a century ago. A breeze, alternately warm and chilly, sweeps over the monotonous
landscape as it is lightened by a rapid dawn, to be followed quickly by a heavy molten sun
appearing on the horizon. The ill-clad villagers, men, women, and children, thin and weak,
and made old beyond their years by a life of underfeeding and overwork, have been astir
before daybreak, and have partaken of a scanty meal, consisting of some kind or other of cold
porridge, of course without sugar or milk. With bare and hardened feet they reach the fields
and immediately begin to furrow the soil with their lean cattle, of a poor and hybrid breed,
usually sterile and milkless. A short rest at midday, and a handful of dried com or beans for
food, is followed by a continuance till dusk of the same laborious scratching of the soil. Then
the weary way homeward in the chilly evening, every member of the family shaking with
malaria or fatigue. A drink of water, probably contaminated, the munching of a piece of hard
black or green chaupati, a little gossip round the peepul tree, and then the day ends with
heavy, unrefreshing sleep in dwellings so insanitary that no decent European farmer would
house his cattle in them.

The Raj has gone, but in essentials the life and lot of the humble villager of rural India have
scarcely changed since I wrote these words. Education, hygiene, welfare schemes, plans for
village "uplift" have but scratched the surface of the problem, hardly more deeply or more
efficiently than the peasant's own wooden plough scratches the sunbaked soil of India. Nor is
the lot of his urban kinsman, working in one of the great and ever-growing industrial cities
like Bombay or Calcutta, much better. At his factory, in his home, the Indian industrial
worker endures, and takes for granted, utterly appalling conditions. From steamy,
overcrowded mill or factory he trudges to the shanty or tenement, equally overcrowded,
equally unhealthy, which serves him as his home. His diet, though more varied than that of
his cousin in the country, is pitifully meager by any Western standard. Around him are the
increasing distractions of a great city, but they have little meaning for him. His amenities are
few, his luxuries nonexistent.

During the years of British rule it was relatively easy to shrug off responsibility for the
economic malaise of India, to put all the blame on imperialist exploitation, and to say, "When
we get our independence, then we shall put economic conditions right." The imperialists have
gone; the period of alien exploitation is over. But can economic injustice be so easily righted?
India's population is stead ily and rapidly increasing, yet at the present rate — and in spite of
all manner of schemes for soil conservation, irrigation, better use of land, intensive and
planned industrialization — it is unlikely that more than half the natural increase in population
can be economically absorbed. India's problem, like China's, is one of economic absorptive
capacity. Pakistan's problem, since she has the empty but potentially rich acres of Baluchistan
to fill with her surplus population, is less pressing. Doubtless in India, as in China, the
extension of education and growing familiarity with the use of the vote and the processes of
democracy will give rise to eager and energetic efforts to find political solutions to the
gravest economic problems. Hundreds upon hundreds of millions of human beings in India
and in China live out their lives in conditions of extreme misery. How long will these vast
masses of humanity accept such conditions? May they not — as realization dawns of their
own political power — insist on an extreme form of socialism, indeed on communism, though
not on Soviet Russian lines and not under Soviet leadership? And may not that insistence be
revolutionary in its expression and in its manifestations?

Yet in India, as well as in China, if every "have" in the population were stripped of wealth
and reduced to the level of the lowest "have not," of the poorest sweeper or coolie, the effect
on the general standard of living — the general ill-being — would be negligible. There are far
too few "haves," far too many "have nots," in both countries for even the most wholesale
redistribution of wealth as it now stands. Reform, to be real and effective, must strike much
deeper. These are thoughts grim enough to depress anyone who possesses more than the most
superficial knowledge of Asia's problems and difficulties.

There is one major political step forward which should be taken by the Governments of India
and Pakistan, which would have a significant and beneficial effect on the life and welfare of
their peoples. This is the establishment of a genuine and lasting entente cordiale between the
two countries, such as subsisted between Britain and France from 1905 to 1914. Even more
pertinent analogies are offered by Belgium and Holland, and Sweden and Norway. Here are

two pairs of neighboring sovereign states, once joined and now separated. The separation of
the Low Countries offers the nearest parallel since this was effected on the specific grounds
of religious difference. I have earlier likened the Hindu and Muslim communities of the old
Indian Empire to Siamese twins; as such they were, before they were parted, hardly able to
move; now separate, surely they ought to be able to go along together as companions and
friends, to their mutual benefit and support.

Here however it is for India with its far greater population, resources, and developed
industries to show the same political judgment as Sweden showed toward Norway after their
separation — that is to say — a final and sincere acceptance of the partition as desirable and in
itself as at last opening the door to a real understanding between the two culturally different
peoples of the subcontinent.

Even a small minority can make great mischief if it keeps up and repeats the political slogans
of unity which may have had a sense at one time but which today can only prevent that good
neighborly relation on which future co-operation in international politics depends.

In problems such as water, both east and west between the two republics of India and
Pakistan, refugee property and other financial claims and counterclaims should be settled
now in a way that the weaker country of the two shall not feel that it has been browbeaten
and unjustly treated by its vast and powerful neighbor.

The problem of Kashmir should also be faced as an honest attempt to bring about by
plebiscite, under international auspices, a final settlement on the basis of the triumph of the
popular will. Were India to adopt consistently toward Pakistan the policy adopted by Sweden
toward Norway, by Holland toward Belgium, not only for years but for decades, not only
peace in Southern Asia but the full weight for international peace and good will will
necessarily increase to an extent of which we at present can have little idea. The great role to
be played as bridge between West and East beyond the frontiers of Pakistan and India can
only be accomplished if and when these two neighbors are themselves capable of co-
operation and such fair dealing toward each other as will con vince the rest of the world that
they have a claim to be listened to and seriously considered.

The alternative to an Indian policy of understanding and the encouragement of water and
other economic needs of Pakistan, not only justly, but with free comprehension, can be that
the neighbor will turn in other directions for alliances and friendships — the result of which
must lead to these two neighborly powers, instead of looking outward and working for world
peace, watching each other, ever on the look-out for danger and discord rather than for
peaceful and economic independence and development.

I do not think that the countries of the Near East, with the possible exception of Egypt, face
any population problems which, granted courage, resolution and ingenuity, should prove
insuperable.

All that the people of countries like Iran, Iraq, Syria, the Lebanon, Yemen and even Saudi
Arabia, need is knowledge — knowledge of new techniques, knowledge of engineering,

knowledge of agriculture. They have room and resources enough. Science properly applied
can repopulate their empty lands and make their barren spaces flourish; can plant cities,
fertilize crops; can set up industries and develop their immensely rich mineral and raw
material potentialities. Here there was once the Garden of Eden; historians and archaeologists
have shown that this region was at one time fertile, rich and populous. So it can be again, if
the powers and the resources available to mankind now are properly employed. The Arab
lands have been devastated by centuries of folly, by waste and extravagance due to
ignorance; the pitiful condition of their peoples today is a condemnation of their past. There
is no need to look further than Israel to realize what courage and determination, allied to skill
and urgent need, can achieve. The Arabs are no whit inferior to any race in the world in
intelligence and potential capacity. A single generation's concentrated and devoted attention
to the real needs of education for all, of scientific and technical as well as academic teaching,
training and discipline, could revolutionize the Arab world. Self-help is better by far than
grants in aid, and better than perpetual outpouring by the United States of its surplus pro
duction. The Arabs' only danger lies in continued apathy and ignorance in a swiftly changing
world, and in a social and economic outlook and practices unadapted to the challenging
realities of our time.

I have little fear about the impact of the future of the British Crown Colonies in Africa. We
have seen the noble work of Great Britain in West Africa. In East and Central Africa the
problem is at present complicated by the presence of a European settler population. I believe
that there can be a healthy and satisfactory adjustment, provided all sections in these
multiracial communities — indigenous Africans and immigrant Europeans and Asians — face
the simple, fundamental fact that they are all dependent upon each other. No one section can
dismiss any other from its calculations, either about contributions to past development or
about plans for the future. The immigrant, be he European or Asian, has no hope of
prosperity without the Africans; the African cannot do without the European farmer or the
Asian trader, unless he wants to see his standard of living fall steeply, and with it all hope of
exploiting and enhancing the natural wealth of the land in which all three have their homes
and must earn their bread.

To a Muslim there is one quietly but forcibly encouraging element in this situation. Wherever
the indigenous population is Muslim, there is remarkably little racial antagonism or sense of
bitterness against the European, in spite of the European's obvious economic superiority.
Islam, after all, is a soil in which sentiments of this sort do not take root or flourish easily.
This is not a shallow and fatalistic resignation; it is something much more profound in the
essence of the teaching of Islam — a basic conviction that in the eyes of God all men,
regardless of color or class or economic condition, are equal. From this belief there springs an
unshakable self-respect, whose deepest effects are in the subconscious, preventing the growth
of bitterness or any sense of inferiority or jealousy by one man of another's economic
advantage.

Islam in all these countries has within it, I earnestly believe, the capacity to be a moral and
spiritual force of enormous significance, both stabilizing and energizing the communities
among whom it is preached and practiced. To ignore Islam's potential influence for good,

Islam's healing and creative power for societies as for individuals, is to ignore one of the most
genuinely hopeful factors that exist in the world today.

But what of the recurrent, intractable issue of peace or war? Few epochs in recent history
have been more devastating and disastrous than (to quote a phrase of Sir Winston Churchill's)
"this tormented half-century." Is the long torment at last over?

I can only hope fervently, with all my being, that this is so; that the nations and their leaders
are sincerely and actively convinced not only of the negative proposition that a Third World
War would effect the destruction of civilization, perhaps indeed of humanity, but of its
positive corollary that it now lies within men's power enormously and rapidly to enhance and
increase civilization and to promote the material well-being of millions who now rank as
"have nots." The only chance of nations and individuals alike among the "have nots" lies in
the preservation of peace. Europe needs a century or more of recuperation after the agony and
havoc that its peoples have endured, and recuperation means peace. The industrial and
productive capacity of North America — the United States and Canada — already vaster than
anything the world has ever seen, is increasing fast; North America needs markets; and
markets mean peace. The underdeveloped countries, in Africa, Asia and South America, need
over the years a vast and steady inflow of capital investment — to build and develop their
communications, to exploit their resources, to raise their standard of living — and investment
on this scale and to this end calls for peace. War, in face of such circumstances and so
numerous and so imperative a series of needs, would be madness. But I must admit that if we
look back at the history of the past fifty years, this has not been a consideration that has
deflected the nations and their leaders from catastrophic courses. All the hardly won
prosperity and security, all the splendid and beckoning hopes of the last quarter of the
nineteenth century counted for nothing when the crucial test came. Pride and folly swayed
men's hearts. The world's state today is the result of pride and folly.

As Germany did for so long, Russia now supplies the civilized world's great enigma, the
riddle to which there seems no sensible or satisfactory answer. One factor in Russia's
perplexing equation is obvious and known — the factor whose results can only be happy,
peaceful and prosperous. The other — the perpetual "x" - is grim and incalculable. Long ago
Lord Palmerston said that Russian history taught this lesson: the Russians must expand, and
they will go on expanding until they encounter some force — a nation or a combination of
nations — powerful enough to stop them. Prom its beginnings in the Grand Duchy of Moscow
Russia has expanded steadily and remorselessly. Is expansion still the dominant motive in
Russian policy? There are some somber indications that this is one of the many
characteristics which Communist Russia possesses in common with Czarist Russia and that
her appetite for expansion is still not glutted.

Yet why should this be so? Are there not other more peaceful factors at work? Russia's empty
lands, within her own borders, are greater by far than those that opened up, decade after
decade, in front of the pioneers who extended the United States from small, precarious
beginnings along the Atlantic seaboard. Russia has no need of overseas colonies, no need,
now that aerial communications have developed so swiftly and so powerfully, for those

"windows on warm seas" which once mattered so much. Inside her own frontiers, if her
leaders can be genuinely convinced that no one menaces the Soviet Union, that no one
harbors aggressive, imperialist designs against her, her people may live at peace for centuries.
Will these realistic and wholesome considerations carry the day, or will suspicion, blind
hatred, pride and folly wreak new and more terrible havoc? As in the German people before
the Second World War there was the dreadful, Wagnerian death-wish, driving a great and
superbly talented nation to self-immolation, so is there in the heart of all men some dark,
satanic evil still lusting for destruction? These are the stern riddles of our time, and each of us
seeks his own answers to them.

But these issues and questions concern men in the aggregate, great bodies of men in national
and racial groups. The biggest group, however, is only composed of the number of
individuals in it. If it is possible to bring happiness to one individual, in him at least the dark
and evil impulses may be conquered. And in the end may not the power of good in the
individual prevail against the power of evil in the many?

I can only say to everyone who reads this book that it is my profound conviction that man
must never ignore and leave untended and undeveloped that spark of the Divine which is in
him. The way to personal fulfillment, to individual reconciliation with the Universe that is
about us, is comparatively easy for anyone who firmly and sincerely believes, as I do, that
Divine Grace has given man in his own heart the possibilities of illumination and of union
with Reality. It is, however, far more important to attempt to offer some hope of spiritual
sustenance to those many who, in this age in which the capacity of faith is nonexistent in the
majority, long for something beyond themselves, even if it seems second-best. For them there
is the possibility of finding strength of the spirit, comfort and happiness in contemplation of
the infinite variety and beauty of the Universe.

Life in the ultimate analysis has taught me one enduring lesson. The subject should always
disappear in the object. In our ordinary affections one for another, in our daily work with
hand or brain, most of us discover soon enough that any lasting satisfaction, any contentment
that we can achieve, is the result of forgetting self, of merging subject with object in a
harmony that is of body, mind and spirit. And in the highest realms of consciousness all who
believe in a Higher Being are liberated from all the clogging and hampering bonds of the
subjective self in prayer, in rapt meditation upon and in the face of the glorious radiance of
eternity, in which all temporal and earthly consciousness is swallowed up and itself becomes
the eternal.

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